


Danse Macabre

by Witchly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1890s, 19th Century, AU with both BBC Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s canon work combined, Addiction, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Bible, Blow Jobs, But Sherlock nor any of the characters are like that, Crimes, Cuddles, Death, Dom Top Jim (who may or may not go Vers only for Sherlock (;), Domestic, Drugs, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, French Kissing, Gay Sex, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, Guns, Hallucinations, Hickeys, Homosexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Irene Adler - Freeform, James Moriarty - Freeform, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, Kissing, Letters, Loss, Loss of Virginity, Lots of Angst, Love, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Mind Games, Mind Palace, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Multiple Orgams, Murder, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, NSFW, Neck Kissing, Newspapers, Oral Sex, Other, Passion, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Poetry, Post-Reichenbach, Power Play, Pre-Raphaelite, Professor Jim Moriarty, Puzzles, Realization, Religion, Riding, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Science, Sex, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, Slow Burn, Smut, Symbolism, Tea, Telegrams, Vers Sherlock, Victorian, Victorian England, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian era, cases, cute shit, jimlock, lots of emotions, lots of feelings, mary morstan - Freeform, paintings, romantic, sebastian moran - Freeform, spirituality, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25751692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchly/pseuds/Witchly
Summary: -“Old flames can die out.”“Some stay alive within you and burn you from the inside out, Mr. Holmes. Death is only symbolic of new beginnings.”-
Relationships: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 22
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lucian here, back with some Sheriarty to share for you allllll. This time, I’ve decided to roll it back in time and bring it to the Victorian period (my favorite period to learn about aside from the Romantic period and Ancient Egypt). I hope you all enjoy the first chapter! Working on two fics at once will be difficult to juggle but I’m determined to update as much as possible.

The night was much too peaceful. It wasn’t at all like the day, with its bustling about the streets of London. From the lower class children pick-pocketing for their next meal, the working class boys trying to find new work, to the working upper class gentleman either attending meetings at Parliament, to the upper class themselves adorned in their luxurious outfits and walking about the streets (or perhaps being driven in their hansoms), with their fine, silk dresses, walking sticks, and high quality top hats, perhaps going to attend a luncheon or to see their friends to do some frivolous activities together, like hunting or boat riding on the Thames. Sure the night was noisy, but it was nothing like the day. It was not like the day when Sherlock Holmes could be at ease and distracted from his thoughts, whereas night brought about the realization that it was his thoughts in general that distracted him from reality. It was at night where he thought the most.

Not even the neglected, half read newspaper in his hands, mind you, could captivate and hold his attention for long. No, not like how it used to. His poor money was wasted for something that he no more had any interest in. It didn’t really put a dent in wallet anyhow, so what guilt could he possibly feel? And well, one could never find the most reliable information from the paper when it was often so politically influenced. He supposed _The Daily Telegraph_ was just about rubbish, wasn’t it? He was almost nostalgic at the thought of what it was like to be a free man outside his own mind. Yet then again, when was he ever? The skeleton key lied in the hands of uncertainty this time, when it always belonged to that of certainty itself, the very obviousness of a conclusion with a sigh of relief. But he couldn’t even sigh, much less breathe. And he was alone with himself with not even a mere diary he could trust himself to confide in. His thoughts raced like bullets, shooting about his skull like a bunch of uncontrollable atoms. 

And his eye twitched, his gaze glancing between his pocket watch for time and the telegram on his lap. Surely, since John Watson wasn’t around to do half the important things to upkeep the flat, such as keeping it tidy for clients or doing so much as retrieving the mail, it was Sherlock’s prime duty. But it was Mrs. Hudson who trusted little of Sherlock to even carry such a weight of the ever so heavy responsibility of such burdens when interests primarily lied within all the areas of crime. He had been perfectly well, very well in fact, not at all too bothered with his thoughts like usual, experimenting dangerously with his bad habits. Everyone had their vices, but Sherlock’s was drugs. Cocaine to be specific. A fair solution of it cast him into a whole other world where he could escape his thoughts and just feel a rush, a high that no other short lived satisfactions could possibly fill in for. But there she went, doing him the kind favor of retrieving the mail and just on time, a telegram from the telegram delivery boy. The high was short lived and now he paid the consequences by trying to flee from reality. And the universe punished him with a grave reminder that he, indeed, was not above the human way.

As it read,

_Expect a visitor tonight around eight. Don’t bother with extreme formalities, I won’t be staying long. Prepare to reminisce about old times._

_JM_

Now, why on Earth would Sherlock wish to reminisce with or about James Moriarty? First and foremost, how did he even survive? And why only now was he popping back into his life after two whole years? It both baffled and angered him how a man could be so conniving and yet so brilliantly clever. When Sherlock and Jim fell over the precipice, he was sure that was it. Obviously, Sherlock survived by luck. He had to play with death for what he believed was accurate as to dismantle Jim’s network. His brother, much to his distaste, had to help bring him back into a society that believed their great detective was resting up with the fish and the rocks, no less the Lord if one were a Christian. But for Jim to survive? To fake his death of all things? He swore, before coming into contact with the blackness of his brief unconscious state, that when the ruthless Irishman crashed into those deep, Swiss waters of Reichenbach Falls, he would be drowned beneath the strong pressures of the fall and its flow and perhaps even crashed his head and or body into an inevitable bolder.

Of the many silly and even mental conspiracies people came up with those days, it was almost laughable to even suggest that his arch nemesis, consulting criminal to counter his work, could live after such an ordeal. But, all things considered, if luck had been with Sherlock then surely it could have been with Jim. But could he even really call it luck? Luck was simply a myth to justify the misfortunes of others. It really just was circumstance and timing. No, it was definitely by circumstance. He was about tempted to call it a devious plot of trickery, yet then again, who in the world would be so mad as to take such a risky chance of a thin line between life and death?

The thought in itself made Sherlock uneasy. For the last half an hour after reading something to leave him so flabbergasted, he finally made the decision to follow through. No one so fanatical of him or his work could forge his handwriting so eloquently and similar, with that oh so familiar, faint scent of Jicky Guerlain tainted upon it, and the way he spoke. It was very much like Jim and that was what made Sherlock feel completely vulnerable in these moments. And what did Sherlock anticipate? What could he? There were numerous possibilities that could be his end result and none of them a thought he wished to entertain. But one thing was for certain— no alcohol or drug could give him the very buzz that Jim could when he used to solve his puzzles. That’s something he had to admit. The same rush and high that Sherlock found in his cocaine was of the same substance Jim was, circulating through his veins. He didn’t understand why or how, much like how he didn’t understand the universe and it’s swing into existence out of the blue. Jim was an asteroid always plunging into his thought-like planets, creating craters there to leave his imprint forever. 

Sherlock was definitely nervous. One could expect him to be as the criminal mastermind was paying him a visit after all this time, but it was the lack of preparation and the lack of desire to be cautious which made him nervous, because he couldn’t help but feel all the sensations of excitement like a child waking up to Christmas morning and expecting an array of presents. But should Sherlock expect an array of presents, right after pushing Jim over the precipice? Jim was hardly a forgiving man and that usually tailed along the lines of revenge. Would he try and kill him himself? Possibly, but knowing Jim, the idea was rather boring. He supposed, for the sake of Mrs. Hudson finding his corpse lying cold on the floor after the meeting, that he should at least try and consider being armed in the instance Jim created an unpleasant atmosphere and withdrew a gun, or whatever or however else he would go about killing him. It was quite like a ghost coming back to haunt him. He came and went in his mind like a storm. There was always ruin left behind to remember him by and his visit to his mind was always left unexpected. But this time it was so real. He could almost hear his voice and smell him through the telegram. How interesting, as typically telegrams were written for someone and delivered to get the message. Jim had this personally delivered to someone to deliver to him, perhaps for the sake of affecting him in the most intimate manner. 

He instructed Mrs. Hudson (much to her dislike because she isn’t his housekeeper, but in fact his landlady) at once to help with the preparation of tea, maybe some biscuits. Jim made it clear in his telegram that he wasn’t staying for long. Now why should he not? And why would Sherlock let him slip between his fingers so easily like sand? He was no fool and he wasn’t allowing Jim to get away so soon after just reuniting with him. One could say he just wanted to pick his brain, take a look into that fantastical mind of his and see what his true intentions were. Of course, Sherlock always had an issue with deducing Jim, as he was the most difficult challenge he ever faced— but he was nothing short of ready to see if he could ever improve at any given moment. 

He wasn’t even an organized man and here he was, _tidying_ , for James Moriarty. Even tidying himself, constantly fixing his hair and his collar as though he were meeting the Queen herself, despite him being at home and wearing his more casual attire, along with a dressing gown meant to suggest a comfortable state of being (though he couldn’t feel anymore uncomfortable by how often he thought of being presentable enough for his enemy). After the tea was made and the biscuits were set and placed onto the coffee table in the sitting room, the detective was fumbling with the latches of his violin case, going back and forth in his mind and wondering if playing would take his mind off of his nerves. He found himself utterly ridiculous acting as if he cared what Jim thought of him or what he would think of him after all this time. Mrs. Hudson seemed to find it remotely amusing.

“Sherlock, dear, you’ve not told me once who this guest is and yet you’ve done so much to prepare for their arrival. Is it possible you finally fancy a g—”

Sherlock was at his wits end. He ushered his landlady (most certainly not his housekeeper), out of the flat and shut the door, returning his attention once more to his violin case. Twenty minutes left. He wasted no time opening it at long last when he finally came to a decision and pulled out the violin, which unfortunately, because of sheer neglect, has left a light layer of dust on it. It’s been a few weeks since he’s played. The last time he played was for Mary and John’s wedding. John specifically appointed him to write the music for their waltz because he found Sherlock’s playing so beautiful, that no other musician could capture music so perfectly, quite like Sherlock could. Sherlock grabbed his violin carefully by the neck and lifted it out of the case, going to his desk in his bedroom and grabbing a handkerchief from the drawer to dust it off. He wiped in circles, making sure to get every nook and cranny so it was spotless. Despite being an unorganized man with tendencies of messiness, he only cared about the cleanliness of two things: himself and his violin. For a moment, moonlight poured through his window and cast his reflection clearly onto the sheen material of the smooth and polished violin. He could see himself and his expression so amiss upon the lower bout. Never had he appeared so flustered. Mrs. Hudson didn’t know what she was talking about, as usual. What woman would be visiting him at this hour and so unexpectedly? The suggestion, even if half joking, could entail all sorts of improper ideas Sherlock was not that kind of man, for more reasons than one. Most importantly, he was married to his work. And that wouldn’t change. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to let the feeling of instability roll off of him like an avalanche upon a mountain. He placed the handkerchief back into the drawer and returned to the living room, where he withdrew the bow from the case. After tuning his instrument and once the bow was sliding against the strings, the sound it made was like a safe haven for him to lose himself in each and every note. Camille Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre in G Minor. Of course, other instrumental, which would provide better harmony, it was incomplete, but was still representative of his state of mind at that moment. It was even symbolic, inviting death into his home. How his mind would dance with Jim’s once again. The thought was both enticing and frightening all at once. 

The sound of the violin bounced off of the walls and echoed through the chambers of his mind. He was lucky to have such a patient and tolerate landlady, for if she were someone else, he would have been long evicted for his numerous, inconsiderate shenanigans (all due to boredom and certainly not his fault) that have often woken and kept others up. As he played, he could feel his heart in tune with the melody, as though every vibration of the strings tugged at his heart strings, it spoke words that Sherlock could not, stringing together a prose of what really did circulate in his mind like a bird entrapped within a cage. It was poetry for the non poet, a mystery to solve for the detective. That mystery… being his own thoughts and feelings regarding Jim. Where did they come from? These feelings of excitement? And where did they end?

And just as these questions pierced his equilibrium and sent shocks to his heart, like raising him back from the dead with the most striking electricity, he heard those faint creaks whilst he played. By this point, he could always deduce who was coming up the stairs by the creak of the stairs or the floorboards outside and inside the flat. He paused for a moment and so did the steps. Then he returned to playing. The steps continued, slow and calculating, studying him whilst Sherlock studied the steps. These were no steps of Mrs. Hudson’s. And if it were a client, he would hear the shrill voice of his landlady tell him so. Not John, possibly not Mary, and of course, not his ridiculous brother Mycroft. No, these were the footsteps of a spider. One who sat motionless within the center of a web, a criminal web, and with every vibration of a thread, knew how each and every one of them danced. He not only knew how to make threads dance, but Sherlock’s mind and how to make it rattle with thoughts. He knew how to make his heart rattle with the deepest quivers of secret delight, masked by what he believed to be mild fascination and the unsettling thought of the unknown. 

As the sound of creaking drew nearer, Sherlock came to a slowed stop towards the end of the song, cursing his hand for trembling with the slightest error of the last few chords, listening to the quiet footsteps that approached the door. Alas, when the doorknob turned and the door creaked open, the Englishman ceased his playing altogether and raised a brow, just feeling a hot sensation take him over. He raised his brow and pursed his pink, cupid bow lips, silent for a few moments, searching for what to say first. At the very least, what followed was not at all what he intended, but the usual, witty charisma of Sherlock’s character once more drawn out by his criminal counterpart.

“Most people knock. Then again, you aren’t most people.”

Sherlock spun on his heel round and turned to face no other than a man who should have been dead. For a moment, there was the slightest possibility that Sherlock considered himself to be hallucinating from a solution. After all, he just upped his dosage just a few hours before. He’s hallucinated with the dire side effects, but as strongly as this? Possible. When he woke up the next morning he told himself mentally he ought to prove it to himself that Jim was real, here and now, somehow. Even if it was just a thread from his shirt or a strand of hair, or even the scent of his cologne still stinging the air like it did now from across the room, it would mean something to know that he were sober in this moment, than imagining Jim for his own mind to indulge for a night of dullness. 

“Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” drawled Jim, so refreshingly in that Irish lilt. Sherlock could drown in the sound of it, it was smooth, like velvet or satin. He could dress himself with it and wear it forever. 

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his nerves now prickling at his face. Not only did he miss that voice, but that face. With that strong, sculpted face, black, slicked back hair, and dark, brooding eyes like coal burning into him, igniting an eternal hellfire within him. Dressed to the nines, nothing less to expect from an upper working class gentleman, with a dapper black suit and tie, and clean shaven. If looks could kill, Sherlock could die on the spot, but not at all in vain. His heart thumped in his chest, practically drumming in his ears, the blood pulsing through his veins thickly like oil in a drain pipe. Inspecting him further with curious eyes, he could notice the slight change in his complexion. Before, he was paler, and now to see his skin resemble more closely to that of a tan suggested that he had been abroad as of recent. This little he could deduce about Jim, whether it was intentional or not. He looked so much more alive than he imagined and was twice as invigorating. That rush of life that gave it meaning was found once again in this moment. A moment he thought he lost forever when the professor joined the fish and rocks. After he believed Jim truly gone, there was nothing in the world that could bring him the same satisfaction and thrill he rejoiced in after a signature case of his. Of course, he would never admit it aloud. Everyone around him found many of his beliefs on morality dubious. Sherlock, of course, never expressed the fondness of solving cases for the sake of others. That is what the public may have viewed him as, but it was wholly selfish on his part. He was a creature of habit and so, that meant he continuously followed his instincts, regardless of the social frown it provoked, because it was just what he liked. He liked the adrenaline, the suspense and the racing mind of a good puzzled filled with mysteries. Childish, yes? Perhaps that was what he and Mr. Moriarty had shared in common; a good story with an ending one was left to figure out.

Though what exactly Jim said was true. He imagined a number of things to cross his mind before Jim could even share any words with him at that hour.

“And possibly my answer has crossed yours.” replied Sherlock, placing down his violin in the case, with ever so slight caution whilst looking over his shoulder. 

Jim only smiled.

“Like a bullet.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the word. He couldn’t tell if it was merely expression or foreshadowing, but not knowing was the most harrowing feeling of it all. In fact, it was quite unfair, but he knew, in Jim’s words, the Irishman would only taunt him with, ‘life’s not fair, Mr. Holmes’. He slowly turned around, hand in his pocket, eyes flickering over Jim like a poacher eyeing a lion, ready for hunt. But was Sherlock really a hunter? Or just a man pretending to be because he feels threatened in some way by the unknown power of the beast? No matter who he had ever come across, Sherlock always found himself feeling like a prey in Jim’s eyes, regardless of him being a few inches shorter. It was less threatening in that sense, but in others, could he be sure? It was something he couldn’t place his finger on. It was a mystery this detective had yet to solve. 

“It’s a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing gown. Or are you just pleased to see me?” teased Jim, that same, knowing smile tugging and pulling at him to and fro. It was frustrating to even mildly entertain that it coupled in enticing and irritating him all at once. Not knowing was one of the worst things that could happen to Sherlock after all. 

“You’ll forgive me for taking precautions.” insisted Sherlock.

“I would be offended if you didn’t.” replied Jim with a tone laced with mirth, so prominent, one could draw it out with a spoon like a cube of sugar (before dispersing it’s particles) in a cup of tea. After patting at the pockets of his jacket, he withdrew a small, silver pistol from his breast pocket. “Obviously, I’ve returned the courtesy.”

With that said, the Irishman glanced down to his gun, cocking it, and swung it carelessly around his finger through the trigger guard for a few seconds before stopping. With a proper grip now, he sauntered his sitting room lazily, eyes bouncing from here to there. Sherlock watched as he aimlessly wandered, wondering just what the professor was thinking beneath all that madness and genius combined. Sherlock was silent, cautiously removing his hand from his pocket to drink one of the cups of tea on his table to soothe his nerves. He then set the cup down, hoping Jim would join him instead of having a tour of his sitting room.

“I like your rooms… they smell… they smell so…” he paused for a moment in thought as he searched for the correct description to finish his sentence. “...manly.”

It was almost laughable. But Sherlock didn’t dare laugh. How could he? He recalled before Reichenbach the many instances where Jim became fond with his home in the times he had been away. Jim wouldn’t even try to hide it (and even if he did it still wouldn’t change anything), it was though he was showing off in some way, to make some childish point that Jim was capable of slipping under his nose and messing with him without getting caught. Just to provoke a reaction. Well, no doubt, it flustered Sherlock to no end to see things rearranged or the slightest off crease in his bed sheets or foreign depressions in his mattress or pillow. And of course, John was no help when Sherlock pointed it out, as everything ‘looked the same as it did’, but Sherlock knew better than to believe just that. 

“I’m sure you’ve acquainted yourself with them before now.” he answered the devilish man, still observing him in the most vigilant way he could. His heart was still racing, despite his blunt yet witty attitude towards him.

“Well, after all, you’ve always been away on your little adventures for The Strand. Do tell me, does your illustrator accompany you in travels? Do you have to pose during your deductions?” He lifted his pistol, chin touching the butt of the barrel whilst his fingers steepled against his other hand. He then lowered his hand and meandered toward the fireplace. Sherlock turned his body to continue to keep his eye on him.

“Obviously, I’m aware of the six occasions you’ve visited here in my absence.”

“I know you are.”

Jim traced his fingers over the dusty mantelpiece, something in which Sherlock had forgotten to tidy earlier before. Well, he knew for one, he would make a terrible maid if he were ever desperate enough to be one (or even wear a uniform like one). The thought was quickly dispelled from his mind. What nerve to make itself known now of all times— as if he wasn’t bemused already with all the other ideas in his mind of Jim and himself. 

Jim inspected his dusty fingers and hummed slightly. “By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed.”

He didn’t know why Jim telling him that made him feel particularly warm, but it certainly made him loosen his necktie, as he immediately felt it oddly constrict his breathing. But when Jim looked back to him again with that same smile, he could feel himself suffocating with waves of heat crashing over him and making it unbearable to stand there composed without burning like the wood in his fireplace. Who could think such a bold sentence could make a man so perplexed with no secondhand shame. 

“Did you know dust is largely composed of human skin?”

“Yes.”

Jim placed his dusty fingers into his mouth, letting his tongue lap over them. Sherlock could feel his skin prickle, though all at once looked slightly horrified at the man. The way his tongue ran over his fingers so shamelessly, Sherlock never saw such an enthralling yet barbaric sight. To consume the dust upon his mantelpiece; it was extremely intimate.

“Doesn’t taste the same, though you want your skin fresh. Just… a little crispy.” continued Jim as he discussed the peculiar matter of dust and skin.

Sherlock sighed, gesturing to John’s chair with his violin bow. “Won’t you sit down?”

“That’s all people really are, you know, dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere…” he stuck out his tongue and wiggled it a bit, as if to rid of the dust he just consumed. “...in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people.”

The Englishman could only ever raise his brow at such a philosophical tangent. He was, however, insistent, he spoke of other things with Jim. Specifically, regarding why he was here and how exactly he survived.

“Fascinating, I’m sure.” He once more gestured to his chair with the violin bow. “Won’t you sit…?”

“People, people… can’t keep anything shiny.” Jim ignored him, staring down the muzzle of his silver pistol, blowing into it three times before lifting it to a higher angle and staring right into it. “Do you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?”

Immediately, Jim turned the gun around and aimed it at Sherlock, who in turn, snatched his own gun out of his dressing gown, and pointed it to his arch nemesis. Sherlock was hesitant, however. He had truly no desire to shoot Jim, much less kill him. He should have though, after all the things Jim has done to challenge his work and cause near-death scenarios. But there was a strange beauty to it. Was it masochism to admit to oneself that he possibly enjoyed the thrill of that? There was something gratifying about the feeling of playing cat and mouse. As no one took the first shot or made any sudden, suspicious moves, the two raised their guns up and lowered them to their sides. Jim carelessly once more swung his gun to his lower side as Sherlock placed his on a nearby table.

“Exactly. Let’s stop playing. We don’t need toys to kill each other. Where’s the _intimacy_ in that?” purred Jim.

Sherlock had quite enough, however. He sauntered over to Jim closer, his cerulean blue eyes piercing coal-like ones that led to oblivion. He needed the Irishman to stop playing games. Mind games. Where he questioned himself and thought and felt things in which were obscene. Things that he never felt before. Things that made him feel like a fly trapped in his captive’s web, really to be dined upon in the most slow and arduous manner.

“Sit down.” demanded Sherlock.

“Why?” inquired Jim.

Sherlock still came closer to him, just stopping only an inch away. This was the first time he had been so close to Jim where there was a lack of regard for personal space. The detective never really invaded anyone’s space before the way he did Jim’s in this moment. He could feel himself unraveling like a bunch of knots coming loose, open to the Irishman to feast on— mind, body, and heart (if he searched well enough).

“What do you want, Holmes?”

“The truth.”

Jim nodded, passing Sherlock by with a devious expression painted upon it. “That. Mm. That’s boring.”

Sherlock watched as he passed him and turned his body to keep his eye on him better.

“ _Why_ are you _here_?” inquired Sherlock, now losing his patience.

“Boring.” answered Jim. “Give me something to work with after all this time.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows.

“Why. Are. You. Here? You _came_ here.” He gritted his teeth.

“Oh, so what? Stop it, stop this. There’s something you want to say, so just say it. It’s been nagging at you for so long now. Why I’m here is the least of your concerns.” mocked Jim.

“I know what you’re doing.” frowned Sherlock in an exasperated whisper. His heart was hammering in his chest at the indelicate and forward words.

“...don’t you? It’s tearing you apart not knowing.” 

“You’re trying to stop me… to distract me, to derail me.” breathed Sherlock, trying to relax himself, to steady himself as though he were aboard a ship in the midst of a storm. His hands ran over his face. It was very possible he would be shipwrecked and yet he still sailed on with persistence. He shut his eyes for a moment to bring himself back to the present moment. 

“What could it possibly be? What I want? What you want? Do you think you’re suppressing something? Isn’t it time to set it free? What could it possibly be? Why don’t you tell me? Should I just guess?” cooed Jim in the most lulling tone. With a taunting whisper, pointing to his mouth, he added, “it’s on the tip of my tongue… it’s on the tip of my tongue…”

Sherlock felt himself falter beneath his voice, lowering his hands with a gentle quiver in his own. “It’s on the tip of my tongue…”

Sherlock then opened his eyes, trying to fight the sensation of unconsciousness that was tugging at his eyes. He didn't understand what was happening but he willed himself to stay conscious to continue to speak. He wasn’t letting Jim have his way by leaving him with nothing. He absolutely refused it.

“It’s on the tip…” breathed Jim, raising the pistol as his mouth opened, resting the muzzle against his tongue which stuck out in the most explicit way. For a moment or two he held the position before ultimately sinking to his knees before Sherlock. “...of my tongue…”

How vulgar! Another jolt of heat kept him mildly awake, migrating to his face, keeping him in a momentary daze of the delectable sight. Though shortly. It felt the world was moving a lot slower, that time gradually came to a stop. Why did Jim kneel like that before him? Why did he find it more frustrating to cope with more than the fact that his body and mind were shutting down? He was even more vulnerable than before. Was he dying? Was it Jim? He didn’t remember him shooting, he didn’t feel any pain. Just lightheadedness and faint. The next thing Sherlock knew, he was collapsing. Jim caught him with a sinister smile before lying him across his chair. 

“I regret to say that I’ve overstayed my welcome.” said Jim, slyly removing the violin bow from his hands. Sherlock was hardly aware, under a deep spell of disorientation. His jaw was now slack and his body now numb. “But I shall leave you with what I initially came here for.”

Sherlock’s throat felt immensely tight, he couldn’t speak, let alone think, as this heavy effect of unconsciousness was now impatiently gnawing at him alive, eyes heavy. They were shutting even against his will. 

“Beaumont.”

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  


It was ten thirty in the morning when the Englishman stirred back to consciousness with the scent of Jicky Guerlain wafting over him. He immediately roused from his state of rest, despite feeling as if he wasn’t sleeping at all. Sherlock only remembered fragments of images from the night before, like a dream he had slipping away from him. He remembered mostly words. He remembered seeing Jim. Vaguely. The scent of his cologne and the power it had over his senses. He heard Mrs. Hudson as she sang to herself as he cleaned. She always sang and tidied up her flat before heading out to church, it was a little ritual, one in which Sherlock slightly enjoyed. It reminded him of his mother, even though he hadn’t spoken to her or his father in quite some time. He wasn't exactly the most affectionate person nor the most attentive, so familial upkeep was left to Mycroft, as he was the oldest, and cared more about finding out how they were doing time and time again than he himself did.

But the name Beaumont suddenly pierced his thoughts as he was lost in thinking. The consulting detective felt an ache in his head when he tried to wrap his mind around the name. Where did he hear it before? He rose from his chair to feel his limbs heavy, weighing him down as he tried to move, like lifting around a corpse as one held its own consciousness. He started to remember more at this point. The telegram? Where was it? The newspaper? His violin? The tea? Glancing around, the tea was gone from the coffee table, the violin and bow was lying against the wall by his music stand where it always had by the window, and the telegram was nowhere to be found. Where was Jim and was he truly alive? What exactly was going on?

A surge of panic bolted through Sherlock as he stood, stumbling as he tried to walk around, searching, searching for answers which needed to be given immediately. But as he searched the sitting room, his bedroom, and even John’s old room he didn’t find a telegram or even the newspaper he half read the night before. All he saw was a little note on his desk atop the Sunday paper, reading, 

_Young man, messing around with those drugs will surely make you lose your head! Here, I’ve left this here for you for when you wake up so you can have a nice read. Maybe you’ll come across a splendid murder to solve. I’ve also left you breakfast in the kitchen._

_Mrs. Hudson_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the note, even though Mrs. Hudson’s generosity always warmed him. He set aside the note and unraveled the paper, opening up to the first page, gazing over it. Lo and behold, in the boldest ink the newspaper could print, there was a photograph of a woman, with the title in large letters that wrote, 

**PSYCHIC MURDERESS!**

**Could she have predicted her downfall?**

**Charged with the murder of her client Olivia Baxter, who accused Miss Blanche Beaumont the night of her murder of having an affair with her husband to-be. Beaumont claims she has an alibi and has been reportedly released from jail on bail by her half brother, Francis Beaumont, a fine gentleman that works in the Bank of England. Mr. Beaumont reassures the public that justice will be served, and does not wish to further speak about the crime at this time. Her trial will be held soon, given as all the evidence points to her. And what does this Negro-French, British born woman envision for her future? Well, England can only imagine it is a future filled with the flames of her devilry, due to her acts of witchcraft and adultery, and of all, murder, which is indeed are all blasphemous offenses. After all, the green-eyed monster often lives in womanly rivalry.**

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the scandalous story in the newspaper. This was indeed the Beaumont that was remembered, but not at all did Sherlock expect to pursue such a case. A psychic? Of all the murder cases, Sherlock had to recieve this one? He tossed the paper down, frowning and rolling his eyes. It was not even a seven for him to take on. As much as he was bored, was he desperate enough to level himself to the lowest of a crime like this? Though before he could even move a single muscle and think further of the case in a negative manner, he heard a knock at the door. Sherlock sighed and adjusted his dressing gown, removing himself from his bedroom to answer the door. Though upon opening it, he didn’t anticipate the person behind it.

Blanche Beaumont. Her police photo did not do her justice. Though, she appeared just as worn out and sad, with dark brown eyes that hid a brokenness, hinting of all that she had lost.

“Y-you… you’re Sherlock Holmes…” she trembled as tears streamed down her light brown cheeks. “...please… I have nowhere to go and I need your help… help me solve my case.”

Sherlock was taken aback. “And why should I?”

“Because you’re destined to...”

Slowly, the woman withdrew from her coat a card.   
  


She handed it to Sherlock before he immediately realized it was a tarot card. He studied it peculiarly before returning his attention to her. As he held it, his hand slightly trembled. Not due to fear, but withdrawal. They were hitting him faster and faster nowadays. It was becoming more difficult to control.

“...and by not solving my case, you yourself are in danger.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

She sniffled irritably. “No. A warning.”

“A warning from who? Or what?” inquired Sherlock impatiently.

“The cards. They never lie. They, in fact, advise.” She walked inside, going past him. But Sherlock didn’t move, just glancing skeptically back and forth between the card and her. 

“And what do they _advise_?”

She turned to him for a moment after clutching her coat, shivering, as she found it even chilly within the room.

“They bestow the warning of indulgence. Next time may be your last, should your habit exceed your will. Listen to me, Mr. Holmes, I do implore your aid. Or I shall be dead and you shall be too.”

Sherlock scowled, taking hold of his trembling hand. “Mere deductions isn’t evidence alone that you can predict the future, Miss Beaumont.”

“No, it does not. But I’m not deducing, sir. I cannot precisely tell the future, just what could happen if a mistake persists.”

“And what mistake would that be? Why would it be necessary for you to quit my habits?”

“Because you’ll be missed.”

“I don’t care.”

“Someone will.” She wiped her eyes.

“Who? Stop speaking in riddles.”

“Someone. I don’t know who. But it’s an old flame that haunts you. And you’ve been seeking its warmth after all these years. And it’s given you a recent epiphany to reflect those feelings.”

Sherlock paused, staring into the card as she spoke. He could feel a shiver pass through him as the thought immediately came to Jim. Why Jim? Why him? It made him sick to his very core, but he felt the same wave of heat overcome him, flustering him at the events that were all too real. He remembered now. Everything. Everything from the night before, like it happened. If it did. He questioned himself like a fool, but was adamant on not answering with an idiotic response. Dead men couldn’t dance with anyone but the dead.

“Old flames can die out.”

“Some stay alive within you and burn you from the inside out, Mr. Holmes. Death is only symbolic of new beginnings.”

New beginnings. Why would Jim want a new beginning by reuniting with old habits? He was different the night before. And so was Jim. Much more infuriating than anything, even when doing so little. He didn’t know how he passed out or why, but he had to know for certain the visit was real. Sherlock braced himself as he sauntered over to the fireplace and gazed upon the mantelpiece with two, clean traced marks in the dust. There, his heart was hammering again in his chest and his blood pressure rose, all the blood in his body migrating to his face. It couldn’t have been— but it was. It was real. All of it was real and Sherlock had been a fool this entire time to not know hallucination from reality. By god! Jim was alive! He was alive and leaving him with a gift. Well, he shan’t disappoint! 

Sherlock turned around to Blanche.

“Shut the door. I will discuss the case with you. Once we are finished, you will take me to the victim’s husband for further questioning.” 

With that said, he lit a fire in the fireplace, much to the content of Blanche, and grabbed his pipe off of the mantelpiece and placed the tobacco inside of it to smoke. Soon enough he was finished and began to inhale the contents inside, sighing out as clouds of smoke exhaled from his lips.

“Now. Let’s begin with your relationship with Miss Baxter.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here’s the second chapter. I may not do as much writing because of work but I will do my best to update cause I love writing~ this chapter seems seriousssssss. 
> 
> Anyways, as a tarot reader myself this was fun to write (a tarot reading for THE Sherlock Holmes after all (; hehe). I know the Rider-Waite Tarot was created in the 20th century but I couldn’t find what they looked like online beforehand so please make do.

“Don’t mind Dr. Watson, Miss Beaumont. He often accompanies me, as I value his input.”

Sherlock peered down below at the body of Olivia Baxter before him. Blanche was facing the other way, rather squeamish and emotional of very gruesome sights quite like this one. It was more than enough to convince Sherlock anyhow that she wasn’t the killer. Considering the idea that it was possible she could have been feigning her innocence, most killers couldn’t help but admire their work or take on a hero complex to ensure their behavior wasn’t in any way, shape, or form analyzed. The police were no help in supplying Sherlock photographs of the victim, so he had to have a look himself at the morgue. Mr. Hooper was reluctant to be around Sherlock after the many rude incidents he had with him. However, he busied himself by organizing the cabinets of different mortuary equipment whilst answering only when spoken to about the case.

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes. The more, the merrier, I say.” replied Blanche, doing her best to hold herself together in such an environment. 

“Are you alright being in here, though?” inquired the ex-army doctor, turning to the young woman with a bit of concern. “I know it’s a lot to digest being in the same room as your former client, especially after all of this happening.”

“Oh please, Dr. Watson, she’s not defenseless.” commented Mr. Hooper snidely, removing a sheet from the cabinet. 

“Hooper...” began Sherlock, who was interrupted by Blanche.

“Mr. Hooper, I appreciate the support, but Dr. Watson was only offering me consolation. Besides,” she turned to John, “Doctor, Olivia was a dear friend of mine. We were rather close. I’m sure I can handle being here in the same room as her body, even if I can’t… look right at it.” reassured the young woman, with a faint expression of unease.

“Very well then, uh— Holmes, you pulled me in here in the middle of my private time with Mary to inspect… what exactly?” inquired John. “Explain it all again.”

Sherlock sighed, as though he heard the most idiotic thing to have ever been said. “To reiterate, Olivia Baxter came the night before for a scheduled session with Miss Beaumont. The session before last, she introduced potential deceit in her future and informed her that it could be someone closest to her.”

“Indeed,” added Blanche, “I felt the cards speak to me in those moments. I warned her to be cautious because I had an inkling it could be her fiancé, but I didn’t exactly tell her that, because it felt like an unprofessional opinion rather than spiritual advice.”

“And Miss Beaumont the following night was not expecting a visit from Miss Baxter. Miss Baxter came into her business and began to accuse her of having an affair with her fiancé after finding out he was writing a love letter to her behind her back. Miss Beaumont was unaware of this and deeply troubled by the accusations, though before she could defend her argument, Miss Baxter had already stormed out.”

“It’s true, Doctor, I tried to stop her, but she threatened me. It scared me. So I left her be.” She explained. “I worked hard to get where I am, I couldn’t possibly let anyone ruin it. That’s probably why the police believe I did it. And I don’t have a lot of time to scrape together my evidence. I couldn’t have possibly known Mr. Richards felt that way for me. We’ve only met twice. No, actually three. Both times he had met with Olivia after a session to walk with her to Hyde Park. Third time she invited me over to her home, for at least an hour or so, for a seance with her other friends. I wouldn’t have accepted it anyhow.”

“The following morning Miss Baxter was found mutilated from her face to her uterus. The only recognizable trait to be known as her was the engagement ring on her finger. Her heart was removed from her body. It can be seen as an attack that was personal, as the body was mutilated, though mainly because the heart was removed. I need you to ensure if my medical deductions are correct. You’re a doctor and I’m sure you can recognize another doctor’s work.”

“You think another doctor did all that to poor Olivia?”

“Well, let’s find out.” sighed out John, leaning over the corpse to inspect it closely.

As John scoured the body, he was appalled by what horrible person could do such a thing to an innocent woman. John often felt empathy for victims, though not to this extent, where he could feel the ache in his chest. That dreadful ache that told him it could have been his wife, his sister (even if they didn’t get along), or even his daughter if he were to have one. Just when one thought the streets were a lot safer with officers patrolling it. Unfortunately, no police officers were around the time of the crime to help with what the suspect looked like. The face seemed to have been bashed in, most likely against a brick wall and rubbed completely off. As she fought and screamed, the killer was likely to have sliced her across the throat as she bled out to death. Once dead, she was cleanly cut post-mortem, with the heart removed, before being mutilated to feign a cover up of the precise work and left in the alleyway right beside Blanche’s shop. Whoever did it knew what they were doing, they just wanted to make it seem as though they didn’t. That is what Sherlock deduced. For John, through the eyes of a doctor, he recognized multiple issues. For one, whoever the doctor was, used a scalpel for the clean cutting, but what seemed like a kitchen knife for the mutilation post-mortem. They used surgical scissors to snip out the heart. It was so simple for them, but mutilating it was to make it seem that it was done by someone inexperienced.

“It was a doctor, you were right, Sherlock. They used surgical equipment for the cutting and removal, but… most likely a kitchen knife for the mutilation. All of it, however, was cut with an unsteady hand, possibly from nerves. Maybe… it was their first time killing?” He looked to Sherlock.

Sherlock only raised a brow at him knowingly.

“No…” he glanced back to the body, to re-examine his shot-in-the-dark deduction, hoping he wasn’t making a fool of himself in front of Mr. Hooper, a stranger, and Sherlock as well. “They’ve killed before.”

The consulting detective smirked. “Doesn’t my Boswell learn quickly?”

“Holmes, I think this murder was impulsive. They’ve never killed like this before.” turned away from the corpse and back to Sherlock. 

“How has this person killed before?” inquired Blanche.

“Through surgery.” answered Sherlock. “They’re not just a doctor. A guilty ex-surgeon.”

“And it was personal. You’re quite lucky you weren’t around to have been targeted as well. This person is mad.” reassured John.

“No. I’m not lucky.” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Poor Olivia! Her blood is on my hands! I should have followed her outside to console her, I just didn’t want any trouble!”

Before John could let out a syllable, Sherlock fished out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, handing it to the young, psychic woman to dry her tears. This act both shocked and moved John, even Mr. Hooper (who never had the luxury of Sherlock’s tenderness), who also had never seen Sherlock act like such a gentleman. This was a side no one had ever seen of him before and it was most astonishing to say the least. Blanche gratefully accepted the handkerchief and dried her eyes and cheeks damp with tears, sniffling and for a moment, taking solace in the scent of his handkerchief. She then smiled and handed it back to him, shy glancing down to her feet before meeting his eyes again. Sherlock could tell she never had a man do that for her before. Not that she needed one, anyhow. But it seemed like the gesture warmed her heart nonetheless.

“Thank you.” said Blanche, brushing a dark curl from her eyes.

“It's nothing. Just keep it.” replied Sherlock, declining the return of his handkerchief with a raised hand. John almost fell to the floor in awe. How unlike him indeed!

Blanche sniffled and nodded, her smile never fading. Her lips no pinker than the shade of blush upon her cinnamon-brown cheeks. John cleared his throat awkwardly and Blanche immediately placed the handkerchief away into her dress pocket. 

“You don't seem like the kind of man to wear Jicky Guerlain, Mr. Holmes.” She admitted.

Sherlock’s heart began to race as his eyes widened slightly for a moment. He didn’t know his handkerchief carried such a cursed scent. If Jim touched his clothing too… he would be utterly furious. The very thought flustered him in that moment and he shook his head with a slightly nervous chuckle. 

“No. I’m not.” replied Sherlock, knowing very well, only a _dandy_ would wear such an eccentric scent of cologne. Sherlock didn’t wear very outlandish scents. A few sprints of eucalyptus and he was fine for the day out. Though, he quickly changed the subject to avoid further awkwardness. “I think we should visit Mr. Richards’ residence for questioning.”

“But he wasn’t a doctor. He’s always been a teacher. He loves children. Wants one one of his own, actually.” 

“No, no— He’s not a suspect, but he might be useful.” 

“Right then, I’ll get us a cab! I know the address!” She hurried out.

John turned to Sherlock as he pulled on his coat with a raised brow. “I’ve never seen you so kind to a girl before.”

“Am I supposed to let her cry and have her disrupt my train of thought?” 

John only smirked in response and wordlessly left the room, not far behind Blanche. Mr. Hooper laid the sheet out over the body of Olivia Baxter and looked to Sherlock with a frown.

“Sounds like a lot of bollocks to me.”

“Hooper—” 

“No, Sherlock, she gets more common decency from you than I do. That says a lot, doesn’t it? I’ve always bent over backwards for you… even with you knowing my secret. I’ve never been consoled like that, just given the cold shoulder.”

Sherlock sighed. He needed to go, but he didn’t want to leave Molly, or Mr. Hooper, like this. Definitely not like this. 

“You’ve always counted, Molly.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “And for that, I’m indebted for your hard work. But don’t wait around for me, because I won’t come… You will find someone who returns your affections. But that person will not be me. Is that understood?”

Molly Hooper slowly nodded, feeling naked even beneath her male disguised, her eyes falling to her feet in shame.

“And besides, you’ll find someone who isn’t as insufferable as I am,” he finished, half-jokingly, removing his hand after a gentle squeeze to her shoulder, “but for now, don’t let the idealization of love make you a fool. You don’t need a man to define your worth.”

Molly fought a smile, though soon surrendered to the warm feeling rushing over her, and allowed it to bloom across her pink lips. She knew Sherlock was right, but she needed time to move on.

“Chin up, Hooper.”

With that said, Sherlock grabbed his coat and hat off of the coat rack, slipping them on more speedily, knowing well Blanche and John were waiting for him. After greeting her goodbye, the Englishman exited the room and soon the hospital, meeting with an impatient hansom cab driver who was more than ready to take off with only Blanche and John sitting in the coach. 

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  


**93 George St**

**Marylebone, London**

For the last twenty minutes, Sherlock irritably sat across the sobbing young man, being consoled by his mother (ever so spoiled, like the room was swimming in money with its lavish carpets, wallpaper, and Japanese tea set just sitting on the middle of the sitting room coffee table), gritting his teeth with a need for his pipe or a cigarette. Something. He needed nicotine flowing through his veins to cope with how dull this hour was. John shot him disapproving looks every time Sherlock went on to glance at his pocket watch as though he were wasting time. It was when Blanche rose from her seat, about to excuse herself to get some air, Sherlock shot up from his seat, tossing down his top hat angrily onto the glass coffee table. This prompted all four people to jump in their seats as Sherlock glared at them impatiently.

“Mr. Richards, you have been sobbing incoherently for the last twenty minutes! Do you or do you not know anyone close to you who is a doctor?” hissed Sherlock, curtly.

“My word! You’re a vile detective, Mr. Holmes! You cannot rush a grievance! This is a hard time for all of us!” exclaimed the elder woman.

Sherlock sharply glanced over her with dissatisfaction. “I do believe, Mrs. Richards, you and Miss Baxter had a strained relationship due to differences of religion— yours Protestant, hers Catholic. To be quite frank, you couldn’t stand the mere thought of her, and in fact, wanted her out of your lives. If anyone could be more suspicious, it would be no more than you.”

Thomas looked over to Mrs. Richards, sniffling, though not completely calm. There was panic in his eyes. “Oh god, please don’t let that be true!”

The woman’s face paled as the truth of her sins were revealed before her and her son, and her throat dried, an expression of fear and hurt hanging on her wrinkled features. Her eyes were pleading, hoping well that Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe she actually killed her daughter-in-law-to-be. 

“I didn’t kill her, Mr. Holmes! I swear on my life, I swear on my soul!” She trembled, near tears.

“I know you didn’t. I just needed Mr. Richards to start speaking in coherent sentences again.” smiled Sherlock, turning to Thomas again. John shook his head and rolled his eyes and Blanche appeared horrified. “Mr. Richards, do you or do you not know someone close to you who is a doctor? Possibly one that has done or does surgery?”

He dried his eyes with his handkerchief and sniffled again, thinking for a few moments (a few moments too long for Sherlock), and nodded immediately. 

“I do. We both have a personal doctor who lives in Kensington, but I doubt he would have any motive to kill my dear Olivia…”

Blanche almost scoffed at the _dear Olivia_ , knowing quite well that the man was using it as an excuse to mask his true intentions, and appear innocent. But she and Sherlock both knew that it wasn’t true at all.

“...I also have a friend who lives on Regency Street. I don’t know exactly what specific field he works in, but he’s a doctor. He loved Olivia and I both, I don’t think he would ever harm her.”

Sherlock lifted his hat from the table and dusted it off. “What’s his full address? Name?”

“30 Regency Street, in Marylebone. He’s a middle aged man with a streak of grey in his black hair. He has a mustache and spectacles as well. His name is Andrew Bailey. Dr. Bailey and I don’t really discuss our occupations often when we see each other. The last time we did was a couple weeks ago. I know he’s busy so he doesn’t write to me a lot, but we try to see one another a few times a month… erm, to stay on topic…” he trailed off in thought. “He was going to be invited for the wedding, though unfortunately that won’t be happening...”

Thomas’ eyes filled with tears again, threatening to spill over like a dam about to break. Sherlock then placed the hat firmly on his head and adjusted his coat. He couldn’t stick around another moment to listen to the tedious crying of a man so willing to break his lover’s heart behind her back. 

“Mr. Richards, one last question, before we all leave,” began John, “how was Dr. Bailey when you last saw him?”

Thomas quickly wiped his eyes and sniffled once again. “He seemed in good health. Um… nothing unusual… oh! I do remember, he was a bit sad that day, I think. We were at the pub and having a few drinks. He opened up to me about the anniversary of his late wife’s death of ten years. I never knew he was a widow up until that point… but even then, I don’t know after that why he would go after Olivia.”

“Jealousy is a venomous companion, I’m sure that’s what Miss Baxter felt when she caught you thinking of another woman.” Sherlock gestured for Blanche to follow suit as he was leaving.

John was appalled at Sherlock’s dismissive and blunt attitude, though of course, not at all surprised. He apologized to Thomas and his mother with the additional thanks, and hurried behind Sherlock as he placed his hat on. 

“Holmes, what the devil was that? Just to think you were a completely different man earlier!” cried John as they all stepped outside.

“After all these years of companionship, you should really let go your Romanticized vision of me, Watson. I’m not a gentle man and I never claimed to be.” He said whilst hailing a hansom cab that was coming their way. 

John laughed dryly at his words, wanting nothing more than to punch the detective square in the face, though instead took a deep breath, and calmed himself down. 

“Just get in the damn cab.” He said shortly.

  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  


“Dr. Bailey, I’m sure you’re familiar with Olivia Baxter and Thomas Richards,” began Sherlock, crossing his leg as he leaned back in his seat, “in fact, very close.”

“I am, detective. Good friends. Better acquainted with Mr. Richards though, I’ve known him for quite a while now, five years I think? Charming man. Teaches geography. My daughter attends his school at the City of London School for Girls. Why do you ask?” inquired the doctor, pouring tea for each of them. He was a little hesitant to pour some for Blanche, even after Sherlock reassured with great confidence she was not the murderer, despite the tabloid nonsense that made her out to look like one.

“If it hasn’t occurred to you yet, I’m here on the case of Olivia Baxter’s murder.” explained Sherlock. “She was murdered by who I suspect to be a doctor, possibly a surgeon or was at some point.”

“A _doctor_?” He raised his brows, completely flabbergasted as he set the teapot down. “Well, that doctor couldn’t possibly be me! I’m not a surgeon. Never have been. What motive would you think I would have to hurt my friend’s lover?”

“Jealousy.” answered John. “I asked Mr. Richards how you were the last you met. He expressed that the only off thing about you was that it was the anniversary of your late wife’s passing. Please don’t think us cruel, we have to take in on any account the evidence received by anyone who comes into question.”

“Yes, it was indeed my late wife’s anniversary of passing, but I would never hurt Mr. Richards that way. It’s unthinkable! And to think a doctor did this to poor Miss Baxter, god bless that sweet, young woman, who barely knew the wonders of life yet! I can only imagine how he feels— I actually can’t. Perhaps partially. My wife was ill, not murdered. No doubt, however she was left, was certainly a ghastly sight.” He frowned. “She was always so kind to me. A few times she even accompanied me to my wife’s grave. She reminded me so much of her. It’s such a shame she’s been taken away from us. But I’m sure the Lord has his reasons, even if I can’t understand it myself.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bailey.” said John, reaching for his cup of tea. “I can see you see you are visibly upset, but we mean no offense, of course. It’s just procedure questions are asked.”

“No, it’s understandable. I’m glad you’ve taken up this case, you and Mr. Holmes. Miss Baxter deserves justice. She was a good woman.” He responded grimly. “Just when you think doctors are here to help. It’s a terrible thing. Is there something I can do to reassure my innocence?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John immediately chimed back in to answer.

“No, Doctor. You don’t seem like a suspicious man and by the way you speak of Miss Baxter and Mr. Richards, it doesn’t seem as though you’re capable of anything so horrific like this murder.”

“Thank you for understanding, Dr. Watson. I recently heard you’ve married as well. It’s not an easy path, but it’s a worthwhile one. I wish you both the best of luck and may God bless you in all your years of marriage.”

“Thank you.” smiled John shyly. “Just me and the Missus now. I have a new life to look forward to.”

“Oh! Will you do much of this still? Accompanying Mr. Holmes?” inquired Dr. Bailey.

“Lord knows, I might need a break from it if I’m quite honest.” laughed John. 

As the two men discussed John’s new life with marriage, there was something in Sherlock that shriveled at the sound of John wanting to leave from doing any sort of case with him. John was the one thing that kept him from being alone. He did try to spend time with him before and even after the wedding. But it wasn’t the same. It was different now, almost as if John were compromising his time, only taking time out for Sherlock as if it were an obligation— a job. After he moved out of 221B, Sherlock was often alone, and being alone (especially unsupervised), left him to play with some dangerous toys; toys that became the most poisonous of friends, personifying themselves as hallucinations of people, memories, and dreams. The only thing that kept him alive when he felt quite dead with the only sound of silence filling his ears. To the thanks of Mrs. Hudson singing sometimes or making sounds loud enough to remind him of a presence from downstairs, Sherlock no longer was turning to his dark friends for solace as often as he used to. It wasn’t the same, but one could say it was progress. He needed ‘company, true company’, she would say. Not these ‘dreadful needles’.

Blanche was sipping her tea when she noticed his expression. It was sullen unlike anything she had ever seen before. Especially on the face of someone like Sherlock Holmes. Of course, she had just met him, but she felt she knew more of him than he allowed. The psychic could consider it a spiritual connection, intuition even. Some psychics even tap into another’s energy and can sense the heavy burdens they carry. They were so very misunderstood and misinterpreted for their work, but Blanche Beaumont was one hundred percent authentic when it came to her readings and interpretations in her work. Even when it came to people. She outstretched her hand to Sherlock’s warmly, a kind expression on her face. 

“Mr. Holmes, are you alright?” She whispered to him.

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin feeling her hand on his own. He never had another person touch him in this manner before, and so, was taken aback, a shy blush coming to his cheeks. 

“Um, yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat slightly. “I trust that John is right about Dr. Bailey and I myself suppose he is one man I don’t find especially suspicious. Unfortunately after today, we don’t have much, but tomorrow I can see if I can get in touch with nearby hospitals and make a list of suspects.”

“Oh my goodness, that’ll take so long.”

“We have limited options, Miss Beaumont.” sighed the detective, standing. “Dr. Bailey, thank you for speaking with us in regards to the Olivia Baxter murder.”

This prompted John and Dr. Bailey to end their conversation and prepare to leave.

“But of course, Mr. Holmes. I always enjoy reading about your work in The Strand. You’re a very clever fellow and I hope you do find the person in charge for killing that poor woman. I’m going to call Mr. Richards now and give him my condolences.”

“Of course.” smiled Sherlock faintly and briefly as he put his hat back on and shook his hand. 

Once Sherlock, John, and Blanche were led to the door by Dr. Bailey’s footman, Sherlock entered the outside with a heavy sigh. Blanche gave him a sympathetic look and John stuffed his hands into his pocket. 

“I should probably be getting home, it’ll be dark soon.” said Blanche as she buttoned up her coat, finding it a lot colder than earlier that morning.

“Are you sure it’s safe, Miss Beaumont? A murder happened near your workplace and on top of that, there are probably mad individuals who won’t have a problem hurting an innocent woman like yourself after seeing you in the newspaper. You must tread these waters carefully.” explained John with concern.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She waved it off, adjusting the fashionable hat atop her head decorated with roses and ribbons. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dealt with the rabid Christians outside my shop, wanting me to shut down for practicing ‘devilry’.”

“I… think you should stay with Mr. Holmes, just until it’s safe to go back.” he suggested insistently.

“What?” inquired Sherlock, looking between them back and forth. “ _Why_?”

“She is out on bail, but practically a criminal in the eyes of everyone else! She needs somewhere to go. Somewhere that isn’t the place of the most recent murder.” he pressed. “It’s just one bloody night.”

“And not with you?”

“Do you think Mary wouldn’t find it odd that I’m bringing another woman into the house?”

“You could always explain to her she’s only…”

“Holmes!”

“Fine! But for the night. God, I know Mrs. Hudson will be badgering me about one thing or another.” he rested his face in his palms, rubbing his temples. 

Blanche shifted awkwardly where she stood. “I suppose… I’m not an awful roommate.”

“I should hope not.” answered Sherlock, removing his hands from his face and pulling on his leather gloves.

“Oh shut up, you were horrid, shooting at the wall, playing violin at all the hours of the night, and doing very cryptic experiments in our kitchen of all places!” complained John.

“As if you didn’t enjoy my company otherwise.”

Blanche could only giggle at the duo’s interactions.

“I’m going home, I’ll get the cab over there. We should call it a day and get our rest.” said John, gesturing for the other hansom coming near to stop so Sherlock and Blanche could leave as well. 

“Goodbye, Dr. Watson, it was a pleasure meeting you.” smiled Blanche politely.

“The pleasure is all mine. Have a good night. And you as well, Holmes.” smiled the blond Englishman, making his way across the street. 

  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  


The moment Blanche and Sherlock arrived back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was smothering the two at every possible moment. She cooked them a lovely roast dinner with steamed vegetables and cracked open a bottle of Beaune Gréves, spoken with them until the landlady finally figured out that it was time to give them space, and wished them both a good night. Perhaps it was because Sherlock didn’t bring anyone home before, especially one who was a lady and going to stay the night (quite a huge step in her book regarding Sherlock, might she add), so she wanted to do everything she could to make her stay comfortable. Sherlock had to admit it was rather embarrassing. He wasn’t accustomed to such attention from Mrs. Hudson. It almost felt like he was being set up for an arranged marriage. It was frightening and he believed that at some points even Blanche was uncomfortable as well. 

It was after dinner when two finally were able to rest. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t sure of her size, but left a couple dresses for her to choose from just in case she needed something else to leave in the next morning and a nightdress to borrow for the night. Using Sherlock’s bathroom, she slipped into the silk white nightdress and let her long, dark curly hair down her back. They bounced with life and with every movement as she moved out. Once she exited the bathroom after preparing for the night, she neatly placed her dress with the others on the end of the sofa in Sherlock’s sitting room. Sherlock was smoking his pipe again and reading a penny dreadful when picked up the other day coming home from seeing Mycroft. He often preferred novels, but the occasional penny dreadful had some interesting reads. They weren’t as popular anymore but still quite entertaining nonetheless. As Blanche went to have a seat on the sofa, she gathered her tarot cards together and meditated over them for a moment before shuffling them up in yet another random order.

Once she spread them out across the sofa, she looked to Sherlock with a curious expression.

“Mr. Holmes, may I have your attention for a few moments?”

Sherlock set the penny dreadful down beside his chair, facedown where he kept his page, feeling the heat of the fire burning in the fireplace hit his arm. He removed the pipe from his mouth and blew out the smoke. “Are you putting on a performance?” 

“If my reading ends up somehow with a spirit passing through the walls.” She jested. “I want to offer you a reading. As thanks for letting me stay the night.”

Sherlock faintly chuckled. “I wouldn’t call myself a believer of cards. I’m not much of a believer of anything but science itself, Miss Beaumont.”

“I think I can persuade that thinking otherwise.”

Sherlock smiled in amusement, placing the pipe aside. “Go on then. Dazzle me with… the metaphysical.”

Blanche could only laugh at his wording, gesturing Sherlock over. The detective got up and knelt down before the sofa, looking at all the cards presented to him. They were all facedown with their backs to him, hiding whatever messages awaited him.

“I can just pick any?” inquired Sherlock. 

“Any. But you can’t just simply choose at random, you’re supposed to pick the card that picks you.” 

“Just one?”

“It can be more than one.”

“That’s utterly complicated.”

“Oh Mr. Holmes,” she snickered, “it’s quite simple, but every reading is different. We can settle it at three. Past, Present, and Future. How does that sound? Just shut your eyes and let your mind, heart, and spirit take over.”

Sherlock shrugged and shut his eyes, hoping he didn’t seem foolish at that moment. He let his hand wander over the cards and his intuition speak from within. His fingers flipped over one card. After another minute, it flipped over another. And after two more minutes, he flipped over the final one. When he was finished, he opened his eyes, and glanced down at the cards before him that were chosen. One, however, was stuck to another, so two cards were flipped over by mistake between past and present. For the past and in between present: reversed, The Hermit, upright The Devil. The present, reversed: Death. And the future: The Lovers. Blanche smirked at the ones that were chosen which made the detective a bit curious.   
  


  
  
“Now I should hope Death doesn’t mean what I think it does.”

“As I said to you before, Death has new beginnings. It’s a very misunderstood but very necessary card, much like The Devil. It’s change. But we will get to that. That’s in the present.” She explained, gesturing to the reversed Hermit and The Devil. “You happened to flip over two for your past instead of one, it seems. Interestingly enough, all your messages are from the Major Arcana.”

“Is that against the rules?”

“There aren’t really any rules in the world of tarot,” she shrugged, “it’s really just a part of your message from your higher consciousness. God. The spirit world. However you interpret it. I’ll say, the universe— a language you speak. Mm. Right then. Let’s start.”

Sherlock leaned back on his legs and watched as the reading took place.

“You’ve been isolating yourself in your past. You’ve been lonely as well. Ever since someone closest left you, you’ve had no one else to share in your experiences of highs and lows. It was a difficult time and you still reflect on those times, feeling as if you’re still alone. You reject what tries to come near because you believe it doesn’t understand you quite like the one you had will. The Hermit, reversed, suggests taking refuge in yourself for once, to explore your mind and heart, and figure out how you can combat these feelings of loneliness and withdrawal. Which… leads me to the next card,” she gestured, “The Devil is representative of attachment, as you see here in the depicted pictures, how the man and woman are chained to him. He is personified of sexuality, restriction, and addiction. It sits between past and present, so this is something you've been at war with for a while. You’ve chained to something that brings out the beast in you, something that kills you from the inside out. You feed onto it as it feeds you; it’s a deadly game. And in the end it’ll be your ruin. Before I met you, I already long knew what I would be getting into. I knew much about you before I learned who you were. A man with great suffering. And my intuition pointed me to a man who struggled with alcohol or drugs, am I correct?”

Sherlock blinked for a moment before nodding, swallowing thickly. He didn’t think her deduction skills were _that_ accurate. Now he felt like how others felt when he deduced them: stripped of all the layers of armor that protected his mind. It was as though she infiltrated it and wouldn’t stop there.

“Drugs.”

“The Devil suggests that you find a way to break these habits before they break you, just as I told you when we first met. Within your isolation you found a deadly companion and with that indulgence, it will ultimately kill you. You shall never know if the next time will be your last. The Devil strongly advises you seek out healthier alternatives, so you can become the best version of yourself. Instant gratification will be your downfall. Break free from the chains that bind you to him. To your cravings.” Blanche paused for a moment, eyes roaming over the cards to the next one on the far left of her. “Reversed Death. The present is urging change and transformation, new beginnings as I’ve mentioned before. Like putting an end to your drug use. But there is also something else as of recent that’s come about urging change, but with all of this, you’ve rejected it. Resisted it even. Something in you is kept from growing because you refuse to acknowledge it. You keep it hidden away, tucked behind something, kept in the deep, dark depths of your mind. It’s a secret you wouldn’t dare admit aloud to even yourself, but your self conscious is more than aware of it. It’s waiting on you to accept it.”

“And what do you think that is?” inquired Sherlock, mildly intrigued.

“You tell me.” She teased.

He scoffed. “That’s vague. You’re the psychic, you tell me.”

“Psychics aren’t mind readers, Mr. Holmes. We don’t know exactly what you’re thinking.” She grinned. “But in regards to change you resist, it’s the old flame you insist has been snuffed out.”

Sherlock froze in that moment, feeling his heart beat in a rapid rhythm. It was drumming so loud in his ears he felt as if someone could hear it. He could go mad listening to it this paranoid, like the killer in _The_ _Tell-Tale Heart_ by Edgar Allan Poe. It beat so quick because his body knew exactly who she spoke of, who he _thought_ of. An old flame that burned him. Burned the heart right out of him. Before Jim Moriarty was pushed over the precipice, at least during the times of their entanglements, he found a peculiar fascination for the man beyond words, regardless of the dark web of his criminality trying to thwart him. He found his mind magnificently grotesque in the most wonderful way possible. But he never admitted that John, at least, not to the deepest extent of obsession. And never the full truth to himself. There was a bit of shame, shame in feeling and being human, of feeling these things for another man, and of all people Jim. He couldn’t help it. Jim was both attractive and revolting and that’s what made it impossible to ever return to those thoughts again. Because he knew how powerful Jim was. How easily he could sway him. And that’s what Sherlock feared the most. He didn’t know what could become of that.

“Death advises you to stop resisting. Accept this change in you. Especially changes your need, like putting an end to your drug use. Like the old flame ready to burn again. Invite it into your life again. Let it come to you. Burn you anew. Fires are representative rebirth and cleansing. Let it burn you completely and make you a new man. I daresay, a happier one.” She glanced over to the final card. “And lastly, we have The Lovers, which is _very_ fitting in my opinion.”

A blush crept onto Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Seems like the old flame will eventually burn you anew, Mr. Holmes,” she chuckled, tracing her finger over the card, “yes, I see it now. If you do as you’re told by the cards, this is your likely outcome. You and your old flame reunited in perfect harmony. The two of you complete each other like no other. You have compatibility and chemistry so congruent in mind, body, and spirit, you are the ying and the yang to one another’s energy. The Lovers represent alignment and harmony, most obviously in regards to love. Sometimes it can be friendship, but it’s rather clear your path takes a romantic turn. Believe in love and it shall guide you to where you must be.”

“Love is a chemical defect, Miss Beaumont.” He absentmindedly tugged at his sleeve.

“Love is most certainly not a defect! The Lovers have spoken. Getting through the muck, you will land on your feet in time. The Lovers suggest you strip down to your most vulnerable state and let the rest happen from there. It reassures there's nothing to fear from it and to make a decision that isn’t sprouted from your anxiety, but from the desires of your heart. You can’t run away from what you want nor can you deny it. Much like Death, do not resist these changes in you.” She smiled satisfactorily, finishing the reading whilst gathering the cards together. “I’m jealous, Mr. Holmes, you’re a very handsome and intelligent man. The person in mention is rather lucky.”

“Could I hardly consider them a person?”

“Considering they’re a separate entity.”

“Can you really be sure that this old flame is the right one?”

“The cards never lie,” she explained, “besides, I don’t think _he_ would be wrong for you if he is someone that never leaves your mind. Especially when it’s mutual.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “H-he?”

“Mr. Holmes, I’m young, not stupid,” she teased him again, “I received a masculine energy during the reading. It’s definitely a man you love. He’s like your forbidden fruit. No doubt in a society like this, you were born in the wrong century. But don’t let that stop you. Take a bite out of him like the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. And savor his sweetness like the apple Eve devoured. But instead of fleeing The Garden of Eden in shame in versions of yourselves wrought with despair, rise from the ashes like Lilith and Samael and feast as much as you please.”

Sherlock was taken aback by the words she spoke, terrified and enthralled by them all at once. He never anticipated her saying them and all that rose in him through the imagery and symbolism came fear. And he wasn’t sure if this was a part of his journey and the change he was supposed to embrace. 

“I… I need to retire to bed. Excuse me. Goodnight.” He rose to his feet, flustered. 

Sherlock hurried to his bedroom and gently shut the door behind himself, hoping to sleep, though knowing his thoughts would keep him awake otherwise. 

Oh, how the cards certainly did not lie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all, here’s the newest chapter! Not sure if I really like it much (I’m not a fan of my writing as it is), but it’s probably my last chapter at the moment as soon I will become a bit busier with college alongside work, so I may not update as frequently but it doesn’t mean I won’t post ever again! Just keep your eyes peeled for updates and of course, pretty please leave me some feedback in the comments!! It’s appreciated but definitely not mandatory. 
> 
> I’m also still working on my other fic The Sentimental Detective btw, so please be patient with that one too. I just took a lil break from it because I have more muse to write for this Victorian-era one at the moment.
> 
> Happy reading! And please leave me a comment if you enjoyed!

The following morning came as slow as molasses, for night was wrought with endless anxieties about what the future held. Not even the fireplace heating the home could serve as a solace for the unforgiving, chilling mind. Past thoughts came, went, came, went, came, went, and came again. The only thing wished upon was the morning light in her inspirational grace. But even when the morning showed her unpredictable face, it was as dark and drab as it wished to be. London was once more dim with rain clouds forming, with heavy breezes that would indicate a storm was on its merry way. 

Sherlock Holmes hardly slept the night, nothing he wasn’t accustomed to already, but the sheer fact of it knowing that he was awake most of his sleeping hours thinking about a notorious, wily little criminal who may or may have wanted him dead made the Englishman more than exhausted. But, as usual, he persevered. He didn’t let his physical obstacles thwart him from his duties. Despite waking up around six, he didn't leave his bedroom until seven. The entire time he had laid there staring at his ceiling, allowing his mind to wander for all the minutes of an hour, filling his mind with what-ifs. What if he truly did fancy his nemesis? What if he already somehow gotten beneath his skin with such a discreet and careful tactic? It was surely dangerous and surely, Sherlock knew it was a path he had to travel with caution. Forget his beautiful dark hair and eyes, that charming, devilish smile, and his handsome physique and face. Forget it all and bury it deep, somewhere that could not be dug up again. 

But the scent of Jicky Guerlain mysteriously wafted in his direction again and Sherlock found himself sinking deeper into his bed, swallowed by his violet sheets and duvet. No matter how far, how deep he went, the scent never returned. But the idea of Jim in his bed entered his mind now, toying with him. No matter how hard he tried to resist Jim, he returned, punishing him tenfold for even thinking of leaving him alone in his mind. All he could think of was that lethal, Irish lilt, like a siren carrying a pirate away from shipwreck, draining the life within him before his very eyes— and eating his heart like a ravenous barbarian. For a moment, the masochist in Sherlock Holmes considered that little, indulgent thought, that maybe he _would_ let Jim have his way and feast upon him like the very hungry spider he was in his web.

The hour had passed however and Sherlock’s attention snapped from his own thoughts of Jim to the shrill voice of Mrs. Hudson’s calling for him. The detective sighed and grumbled to himself, most infuriated by the fact he couldn’t stop himself from thinking so lecherously of the certain criminal he time and time again banished from his mind. This time, he swore he would do the utmost from letting that man have such a power over him. This time he would nail every door and window shut in his mind palace so no impish criminals would enter it again. 

“What is it?” frowned Sherlock as he exited his bedroom, not minding whoever else was in his home, he didn’t care much for tidying up with other kinds of company.

“Your paper, love, the delivery boy just dropped it off.” She hummed, handing it to the Englishman.

Sherlock gratefully accepted it and took it from her hands, opening it to the front page. However, his eyes widened when he gazed upon it, grazing through the newest murder victim which no one would’ve thought would be next.

**GROOM FOUND DROWNED!**

**A grim day for the Richards family ahead!**

**Thomas E. Richards, aged thirty-five, was found dead this morning, drowned in his own bathtub. He was found by his footman, who often readies the bathroom every morning with towels for his morning bath. Mrs. Richards, mother of Mr. Richards, finds the situation heartbreaking and disturbing. Knowing her son better than most, she says with confidence that she knows such a strong and gentleman would never commit such a grievous act against God himself. She knew Mr. Richards was fond of life and teaching and how deeply she feels he will be missed by all, and is hopefully resting well with Olivia and the Lord. Though it appears to be a suicide, Scotland Yard is investigating the horrid matter and any leads on the culprit at fault if otherwise. Blanche Beamont, Negro-French British woman of twenty-seven, the very possible psychic murderess, has recently been released on bail. With her being investigated, this might have set off alarm bells of panic. It can only be fair to consider the dire chain of events and all so soon after the murder of his fiancé, Olivia Baxter. Regardless, justice shall prevail and only God is our witness in these dark times!**

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the nonsense he just read and tossed the paper aside, sighing. He shouldn’t have been frustrated, but he was. It was only a matter of time before someone found Blanche with him and then the press would eat it up like a three course meal. The last thing he needed, or even _wanted_ , was unwelcome attention by the most unforgiving type of people. The public was something he never liked tangling himself with, which meant, helping Blanche Beaumont would have to be far more discreet than letting her stay so carelessly in his home. 

He glanced before averting his attention to the sofa where Blanche sat, curled upright in a ball, with her knees to her chest, and her face planted between her knees. She was sobbing hysterically. It was more than obvious that she knew her inevitable end with the police long before he could open his mouth. It was evident, somehow, they her answers lied in the scattered tarot cards across the floor, most likely dropped after a reading done for the sake of Mr. Richards and his untimely death. But the oddity of it all was that her nightgown looked so ripped and torn, as if she had been in a terrible fight. He could see bruises that littered her arms and just a bit below on her ankle, though he reckoned there were more beneath the skirt of her nightgown, hidden from plain sight. There was a slight tremble in her body and Sherlock knew he couldn’t simply stand around any longer.

“I take it the cards granted you an ugly peek into the future.” He approached her, eyeing her and the tarot cards spread about the floor. 

Blanche’s teary face shot up from her knees and she sniffled, nodding as she brushed tears from her face. She looked so devastated.

“And I take it you got wrapped up in some kind of debacle along the way too?”

Blanche was silent.

“Why did you leave the flat?” inquired Sherlock, hands behind his back as he strode back and forth around the sitting room, almost like a doting father. But it wasn’t as though Sherlock bore any major concern as he was just mildly curious. After all, it was John who pressed for her to stay there, but she was so adamant on going back home to where her shop was. And for what?

“I can’t stay away from my shop for long. It’s like my child, Mr. Holmes. It’s all I have to my name. And I don’t have much. I know it was stupid, but… there are some things worth protecting, even at the cost of your safety.” She explained with strain her tone. 

“And the reason for your… injuries?” He stopped where he stood and turned back to her. 

Blanche pursed her lips more a moment, hesitating to give a response. It seemed like she searched for an answer as her eyes remained glued to her lap. It was guilt and fear, intertwined, dancing in the midst of her storming eyes. If one peered closely, they could even see the thunder behind it. The flicker of anger that came and went in the black clouds that stirred in her darkening hazel eyes. They were glittering with tears and Sherlock could only come to the conclusion that he had no clue how to comfort a woman when she cried. His mother would have a fit had she been there! How improper for a man of his age and status, she would chide him. But it wasn’t something that came natural for Sherlock, as his deductions and his knack for violin. He simply stood there, watching her, listening to whatever else had to have been said.

“I was attacked by a man.” finally answered Blanche as she glanced up to Sherlock with teary eyes. “By a no-good, Christian who saw me in the paper. Said I would burn in Hell for what I do. Said I should be there already with the rest of _my people_. I think it’s quite sad. To be a child of an ex-slave, have freedom, and still feel like you’re beneath a white thumb.”

Sherlock frowned. “And where did he go?”

“You’re better off not wasting your time with him. It wouldn’t even matter if he did get in trouble. I’d still get a worser sentence for just being suspected of killing poor Olivia alone. People like me don’t get the justice we deserve.” She pulled out the handkerchief Sherlock gave her the day before and wiped her tears. “Don’t worry, I’m alright. I’ll be able to manage.”

“No. You won’t. I’ll have Dr. Watson come straight away to examine your injuries before we leave. Need him anyhow.” He waved off, going to the windows to open the curtains. “I suggest you don’t try to leave again without being accompanied by someone, lest you wish to find yourself in a coma or much worse.”

“Very right. Thank you.” She sniffled more, gathering the tarot cards from the floor.

But was she truly safe in London at all? Was she anywhere? It was the very thought that sent a shiver down her spine.

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


Sherlock strode through the home of the late Thomas Richards. His mother sat just downstairs below the room of the crime scene, in the sitting room with police officers from Scotland Yard, comforting her and most likely thinking that the poor, old woman’s stress was no good for her health. And they’d be right. A trauma like this would follow her the rest of her years, which didn’t seem like many more in the most observative point of view. Blanche stayed at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, more than likely not welcome and even more of a suspect had she joined Sherlock and John to further investigate the matter. Now it made perfect sense to suspect her, having been the last one to see Olivia Baxter, and strangely enough, after seeing Thomas Richards, who profusely expressed his sorrow over Olivia’s passing just the day before. But it was extremely foolish to think so. Sherlock didn’t believe it for a moment. She was not equipped with the skill for murder. She didn’t even have a bad bone in her body. But of course, that would be for the jury to decide. 

As Sherlock and John ascended the stairs, with its eerie creaks and uneasy atmosphere, the housekeeper from atop was wiping her tears glumly, clearly dejected by the loss of her master. She showed little energy when she noticed the duo and only offered a faint, brief smile that only lasted but a few seconds before returning to its previous frown. Her tired, blue eyes showed that she had been working all night to meet the demands of Mrs. Richards, who time and time again requested comfort food for her and her son as the two of them sat, ate, drank, and spoke about Olivia and moving forward with life for hours. By the position she stood in, with her body language closed in with folded arms and eyes everywhere but them, staring holes into the floor, it was extremely clear that she was far too insecure and meek in this moment to speak, as the loss weighed upon her like a ton of stones on her back. She stepped out of the way for Sherlock and John to make their way into the bathroom.

Entering into the crime scene, it was already obvious to Sherlock by the position of Thomas Richard’s body in the bathtub that it was a murder. He stepped forward to the tub, his eyes narrowing as they studied his outstretched position and the water. Thomas’ head was still beneath the murky bath water, of dead skin cells and the brownish-red tint of blood. At just gently poking his head, his body rose up, floating to the surface. He investigated how his arms were slashed vertically down the inner vein of the arm, to produce a quicker way of dying by bleeding out. But he crouched down with John, whilst his friend was concluding the time of death, Sherlock was concluding how he was exactly murdered. He reached his gloved hand down and ever so slightly tilted the jaw upwards so he had a better view of his neck. There was light purple bruising around the neck which made Sherlock purse his lips.

“He was placed in the bathtub post-mortem. The killer made it seem as though he were suicidal, but failed to realize he made a mistake.”

“How so?” inquired John, frowning. 

“Watson, he was dead before he reached the bathtub because he was strangled. Take a very close look and you’ll see bruising around his neck and throat. Not sure how Lestrade s boys missed something so obvious.” He rolled his eyes. “He couldn’t have strangled himself and drug his own body in the tub.”

“Makes sense… I’ve concluded he’s been dead for at least nine hours. So around midnight would have been the time he was most likely murdered.” 

“And awfully late for any visitors to be welcomed in here.” remarked Sherlock, getting to his feet once he noticed Lestrade at the doorway.

“Find anything valuable, Mr. Holmes?”

“A lot more than your idiotic officers,” he stretched a bit, “it’s a murder, not a suicide. Victim was strangled before having been placed in the bath. His jugular is crushed and there’s bruising around the neck, but with the lack of thorough observation of Scotland Yard, it’s very clear that there was little consideration on your end.”

“Just get to the point, Holmes.” sighed John, face buried into his palm.

“His arms were slashed post-mortem. But the blood from his arms isn’t the only blood in the tub. He must have been coughing up blood as he was being strangled and it also must have been a long struggle because….” he turned and gestured to the floor. “There’s red water droplets just beneath the tub. It’s a surefire sign of a fight. Our killer though they cleaned up well but was sloppy this time. They fled, most likely after hearing the housekeeper or the butler and didn’t want to be caught. Also, the impressions in the bruises are evident of the killer to be a man. The size of the fingers were larger than that of a woman’s. More than likely, if it were also a woman, you would see nail marks within the skin. This man is a doctor, a surgeon even, and yet this time instead of extreme mutilation he’s resorted to to strangulation. Why? But his methods are also so similar and yet so clashing. Both bodies were mutilated to a degree, but this one was done impulsively… not very planned…”

“Think he knew something?” drawled Lestrade, scratching at the back of his head.

“He was angry because Mr. Richards knew who he was. Or would have.” answered Sherlock, glancing back to the body. “Bring me the housekeeper and the butler.”

“Right.” Lestrade spun around on his feet and exited the room. 

“But didn’t you say that a man did it? Why do you need the housekeeper?” inquired the ex army doctor, furrowing his brows.

“They are the two only people who would let someone into this home.” said Sherlock as he looked to the doorway with the two servants Lestrade brought. 

The butler was tall and of lean build, his hands fairly slender, much like that of an adolescent boy’s (showing that he was indeed a young butler), and eyes filled with fearful innocence. Sherlock already knew at first glance that the butler was not in any way a suspect, but it was possible he, like the housekeeper, could be holding valuable information about what Thomas Richards could have known before he died.

“You wanted to see me, er, sir?” asked the butler, adjusting his spectacles.

“Henry, is it?”

“Yes sir.

“Were there any visitors for Mr. Richards after Dr. Watson, Miss Beaumont, and I left yesterday?” 

“No, not at all sir. Master Thomas was feeling indisposed and wished to be left alone. So he and his mother both retired early to bed.”

“And neither you nor Catherine here heard anyone sneak in? Locked all the doors?”

“Yes sir… though, that was Catherine’s responsibility last night.” He admitted with a frown, earning a hurt expression from the housekeeper. “I was very busy with the instructions of my master to write to someone in his social group, at a gentlemen's club he visits sometimes.”

“I locked the doors, I did! All of them, Henry!” scowled Catherine, who was completely infuriated by not only Henry, but Sherlock, who didn’t acknowledge her. 

“Who was it? And what club?” inquired the detective, possibly a bit too eagerly.

“The Goulding Club. He had me write to a man named Robert. A Mr. Robert Chesterfield. The letter was about him thanking Robert for his work and that his payment would be sent to him soon as well as to apologize for not being able to join him that night. He was very vague about the details. That’s all I know, sir.”

“Master Thomas has mentioned him before now that I think about it.” chimed in Catherine. “I heard him talking about Robert to Mrs. Richards about meeting him at a luncheon some time ago. He did sound quite fond of him.” 

“We should go investigate this Robert then. Right, Holmes?” John looked to Sherlock as he watched the man place his top hat back on.

“Sir— sir!”

Sherlock’s eyes darted from John to an officer hurrying up the stairs with a box. There was an expression of fear and grimace upon his face as he shoved the box towards Lestrade, who was taken aback and nearly fell over after taking it from him. His face went white and he shoved the box to Sherlock next.

“How bloody morbid!” exclaimed Lestrade in the most offended manner. “Be ashamed of yourself, Constable!”

Sherlock scowled as he peered inside the box, eyes shifting to John as the two men beheld the hideous, macabre sight. Robert Chesterfield’s head inside the box, most likely to have been frozen inside of an icebox overnight for freshness, as the cardboard box he held felt chilly. On the side ‘R.C.’ was written in small letters.

“Oh my god!” Catherine clamped her hand over her mouth and fled to the downstairs bathroom. “Please excuse me!”

“He’s been dead since ten o’clock last night.” said John after studying the head inside, with its dull blond strands, empty eye sockets, and bloodied face. “Head was cut clean off, though it’s difficult to say with what. An axe? And his eyes? Why would he take his eyes? Jesus— He didn’t take anything from Mr. Richards, so why Mr. Chesterfield?”

“It’s a message, Watson. When Olivia was robbed of her heart, there was meaning. This… This is a mockery. He’s mocking us. Mocking me.” growled Sherlock, shoving the box back into Lestrade’s arms. “Take it. Where did you find this?”

The constable looked nervous. “I-it was left on the doorstep outside.”

“And who left it?” inquired Sherlock, most impatient.

“I’m afraid I can’t say. And not because I don’t want to,” he admitted with shame, “but because my back was turned. You see, I saw this little stray cat and I…”

“Let’s go, Watson, they always say if you need a job done you might as well do it yourself.” sighed the detective, descending down the stairs.

“Holmes— Holmes! Where are we going?” 

“We’re going to that gentlemen’s club. That’s the only place we can really find out any more information about our killer. These house servants are utterly useless and so are the police.” grumbled Sherlock, not liking to hit dead ends. 

“How will we ever enter something so exclusive? Hm? You’re being impulsive!” 

Sherlock stopped where he stood and turned to John. “Yes. But consider this: I have a plan.”

“Do you now? It would be wonderful if you actually told me.”

“The Goulding Club is rumored to be a very liberal club. Not only politically, but all it really takes is an hour long interview. They’re still looking for more members now. If we show interest to join their club, it’s our only chance of finding our killer.”

“And _how_ do you know all of this?”

“They advertise themselves in the paper. They’re trying to gain at least one hundred members.”

“One hundred? Do you know how long that will take?”

“Not very long at all. When you utter a name in a cave, it is certain to echo back to you.”

  
  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


**88 Pall Mall**

**St. James’s, London**

“Who did I vote for?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. We want to make sure that whoever you voted for aligns with your beliefs to join this club.”

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sigh, but earning the trust of the club members, including its leader, was extremely important for this case. He forced on a smile and gently toyed with the edge of his hat in thought. Sherlock wasn’t someone who really voted, as someone who despised politics and government himself. It was already bad enough having a brother in the British government. He didn’t wish to voluntarily associate himself with anymore of what he found to be ‘corrupt nonsense’. Though his beliefs leaned liberally, he didn’t accept either party. To him, they were silly, made up labels placed on the same system. 

“William Gladstone. I admire his views on free trade. I just… think it’s very important for a society to use such a method that can be beneficial for every country that comes into contact with England. His moral views are also admirable and it shows the upper class that we are no different.” He lied through his teeth. Sherlock only read about him, but he was no less corrupt than any of the Tories. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Goulding?”

“Quite!” mused Goulding. “He is the perfect choice for our government. It’s so amusing to rile the conservatives. They care for only themselves, with their money and their power. If we want to change something, let it be for the people.”

“Yes.” Sherlock was still smiling at this point, but internally counted sixty-two minutes in the back of his mind, hoping he wouldn’t have to sit through anymore of these tedious, mind numbing questions. 

“Well sir, that is all the interrogation I’ll put you through, Mr. Holmes,” he laughed, prompting Sherlock to feign amusement on his end, “I can see you’re a fine gentleman that has very strong beliefs. You haven’t done much protesting or attended many gatherings regarding liberalism, but any man in our club can be transformed radically with the right friends and influence.”

“So are you saying that I’m permitted entrance, Mr. Goulding?”

“Indeed! You have an impressive mind, very intelligent. You know how to draw attention to your points and make others understand. The great thing about The Goulding Club is that our men are all encouraged to debate. Even within the liberal party, everyone has their own opinions that are slightly different from others. They’re often held on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays at noon and eight o’clock. Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, we welcome you to The Goulding Club with open arms. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock got to his feet, “will my friend be finished soon?”

“Dr. Watson? He should be, he’s speaking with the other club leader, Mr. Lupin.”

Goulding rose to his feet as well and sauntered over to the door in his office, opening it for Sherlock. 

“Thank you. I’m… also rather parched for a drink, can you point me to the bar please?”

“Certainly, it’s just down the hall left here, then right up the stairs.” smiled Goulding, gesturing his hand to the left for Sherlock as he spoke.

“Thank you.” said Sherlock, turning his attention to the exchange that took place across the hall from him with John, who too looked mildly agitated, though with no forced smile upon his lips.

“Dr. Watson, whilst we appreciate your desire to join, I do believe you are not right for the club at this time. Perhaps, try again after a few months or so, just to build a bit of a reputation for yourself.” smiled Lupin, ushering him out a bit too hastily.

“I’ve never felt so unwelcome in a place in my life!” huffed John.

“We are not very keen on your past choices for Prime Ministers, Doctor, but we are more concerned about now and your future— it’s not too late!”

“This is preposterous, my wife is a part of the Women's Liberal Federation! She’s very much a feminist with her own mind! Does that not count for anything?”

“That’s what all husbands say, don’t they?” laughed Lupin. “Please sir, I shouldn’t wish to call the police.”

“No, not at all,” interrupted Sherlock, quickly approaching them, “my apologies, my friend is very opinionated. Such a shame he can’t be welcomed at this time, he’s quite the debater.”

John looked extremely offended at Sherlock as the detective ushered him towards the door as well.

“How ridiculous! Never bring me here again!” frowned John. “He called me a filthy conservative just because I used to support Tory growing up. I don’t even involve myself in politics anymore!”

“Watson, you should just wait outside for me and please, do try to relax.”

“Does that mean you got in?”

Sherlock smirked with a small nod his way.

“Unbelievable. How the hell did you do it?”

“Helps when you have a brother in the government, I suppose.” shrugged Sherlock. “I mostly lied. I don’t really care for all of this political nonsense anyhow, it’s like an insufferable, miniature House of Commons. But remember our initial intention was to find our killer, so don’t get so beat up over it. I wouldn’t take offense from a club that does nothing but drink, play billiards, and argue about what the country needs all day.” 

“Right. Right then, I’ll wait for you out here.” sighed John, opening the door to stand outside. 

“I won’t be long, of course.” reassured Sherlock, shutting the door.

After he shut the door, Sherlock turned to see that both the men from before were gone— most likely in their offices working on other things related to the club. He took this opportunity to explore. He first went down the hall on the left as instructed and up the stairs, mildly impressed by the structure of the building, with its white marble flooring and freshly painted white walls. It was a plain look, but fairly elegant. Far too elegant for something like a club for politics. As he reached the top, he glanced around, seeing middle and upper class men (mostly middle or upper middle class) all around him in different areas of the second floor.

He noticed the bar right in front of him and didn’t waste any time. It was large, spacious, and occupied with at least thirty men within the room itself, at different tables, all chatting and conversing about one thing or another happening with modern-day Britain. Upon entrance, he approached the bar and sat at a seat, looking to the barman as he finished serving another man a beer. When he turned to Sherlock, he greeted and smiled at him, coming over to his side of the bar.

“You’re a new face. I don’t see many of them often,” he cleaned a small water spill on the counter on his side, “what can I get for you, Mr…?”

“Carter. Mr. Blair Carter.” introduced Sherlock with an alias. “Johnny Walker, please.”

“Well, Mr. Carter,” hummed the barman with his sing-song, Scottish accent, preparing Sherlock’s drink,“welcome to The Goulding Club. Douglas Greer at your service. What’s drawn you here? If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem far too reserved for politics.” 

“Yes, I get that a lot,” said Sherlock, accepting his drink once given to him, “just a good sense of community with people I have much in common with, I suppose. I heard about the club from Robert, Robert Chesterfield. We are rather acquainted, not very close, however. Met at a protest sometime ago, an interesting gentleman. Do you know who he is?”

“Do _I_ know who Robert is? My god, Robert is a popular man here. You’re very lucky to be acquainted.”

“Am I now?”

“Indeed, he’s a very selfless person. Very charitable. Came from, which is probably why he is the way he is. Always active in the suffrage movement and a proud enthusiast of art. But he also, I think, had another interest aside from politics. I think he also wanted to involve himself with police work, become a detective or something. Sometimes we chat about it when he’s here. Usually it’s just about him needing a break from politics. I can only imagine so, he’s done so much for others for the past twenty years. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you, Mr. Carter. Last time we spoke about his training there and he was quite passionate about it.”

“Does he talk about it with everyone? Or does he only tell those he feels he can confide in? Any enemies that would want to stop him?” 

“Well, I suppose he does only talk about it about those he can confide in. The majority of people here in this club have outside jobs that are unrelated, but many of them want to become politicians to make a difference. But enemies, Mr. Carter? A rather strong word. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body. Everyone was his friend.”

“You mentioned he wanted to specifically do detective work. Any reason for it?” Sherlock gently tapped his fingers against the glass.

“Well, he seemed very curious about that new murder in the paper that involved his friend’s wife or something. What was it now? Oh! That’s right, it was the one about that psychic. Mr. Chesterfield was a very wise man, he thought the paper was biased because the lass was a Negro. He could be very right. But who knows? Not many people aspire to be a detective, but he has a good head on his shoulders, and is very smart. Said yesterday afternoon he might be a little busy with the case to come by the club, so if you see him, let him know I said hello.”

Sherlock awkwardly smiled. “Will do.”

But before Douglas could leave, Sherlock stopped him. “Just another question, Mr. Greer. Do you know where he was going to investigate? I only ask because… he’s piqued my interest. I may want to be a detective too. Would like to ask him more.”

Douglas laughed, though a bit of it was forced because he needed to get back to work and serve another man sitting down at the opposite end. 

“Oh, well not a problem, Mr. Carter. Uh, I think it was the same place where that poor woman was murdered. The psychic place. But aye, good luck be with you then, future detective! You and Robert may inspire the wee ones out there too.” 

Sherlock cracked a brief and friendly smile before it disappeared from his lips and he was off. He rose to his feet, leaving his drink behind, and fleeing the club. He reached John, who stood outside, still looking irritated from the earlier exchange with Lupin and impatient, as Sherlock spent much longer than anticipated.

“Our killer was being investigated by another aspiring detective— Robert Chesterfield.”

“Detective? Why was he playing detective?”

“Helping his friend Thomas Richards, of course. Not sure why he would hire someone to do something like that when I was at his home yesterday, already investigating Olivia Baxter’s murder.” He grunted, placing his hat back on. “The nerve.”

“I don’t blame him, you were quite an arse yesterday.” remarked John. “But that’s beside the point. Let’s put aside why he chose an ameteur detective over you and remain on topic.”

“The barman and him seemed rather close. He told me that Mr. Chesterfield was supposed to go to Miss Beaumont’s shop yesterday, or at least, I imagine, just investigate the area.”

“But what would even be there?”

“Clues, possibly. I didn’t go to investigate her shop or around it because Olivia Baxter’s remains were moved by Scotland Yard before I could get to them. Which meant the evidence was already long tampered with and I had to deduce her murder by her remains in the morgue.” 

“Didn’t Miss Beaumont say she checked on her shop last night? She may have something to do with it. Or at least know who Robert is.”

“Very possible. Let’s find out.”

  
  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


“As I’ve told you, Mr. Holmes! I was there to check on my shop!” exclaimed Blanche, who was sat at Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table, darning a hole in her nightgown. The landlady was very insistent that Blanche didn’t trouble herself over an old, worn out thing, but she refused. She washed it after John tended to her wounds and made sure to sew it up as good as new.

“Who was the man that hurt you? You know him, don’t you?”

Blanche placed the nightgown down and sighed, looking up to the determined Englishman.

“If you think I killed the man, then no, I didn’t.”

“Miss Beaumont, that _isn’t_ what I asked.”

“He was a right bastard. The man you’re talking about, this detective friend of Mr. Richards I have had no knowledge of. Never met him a day in my life and probably wouldn’t care to. Besides, he seems like an awfully fine gentleman by the way you described him from someone else’s point of view. Charity work and all. You said that he was blond. My attacker had dark hair, but it doesn’t matter. I was only there no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. I didn’t see anything happen aside from that, so whatever the incident was, probably occurred long before or after I left.”

“Are you sure you don’t remember anyone? No one at all?” inquired John. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t.” She frowned. “Maybe it’s a pattern of some sort? Since he’s killed there twice? I’m no good at these things, Mr. Holmes is far more capable.”

“Back to square one, I suppose.” John let out a soft yawn.

“We are.” replied Sherlock, almost devastated. “But… we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? How very unlike you.”

“You’re tired, it’s obvious, having made an early home visit to a neighbor in need this morning. Any time we were in a cab today, you dared to fall asleep on me as I expressed my frustration over Mr. Chesterfield being chosen over me.”

“Really? And not because I found it boring?” half joked the doctor, grabbing his hat off of the kitchen table. “Mm. Fine. I’ll go if you need me to. Do your… deduction thing in that mind palace of yours. Good luck and goodnight.” 

“Alright. Goodnight, Watson.” He said, watching him as he was leaving. How envious the consulting detective was too, wishing he could also simply call it a night. But genius never slept but tortured the brain like hot coals burning into him.

“Goodnight.” The ex army doctor hummed, shutting the door behind him, also hearing John greet Mrs. Hudson goodnight, who was in her sitting room dusting furniture.

Sherlock affixed his attention on Blanche. 

“I’m going upstairs.”

“Without dinner? Mrs. Hudson’s planned on cooking again.” 

“That’s exactly why nothing was figured out yesterday. Digestion slows me down.”

Blanche huffed softly, not at all understanding the Englishman. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a buzzing mind. He was tempted to dig out his little drug kit beneath his bed, beneath the floorboards. As delighted as he was to be working on a case after so long, Sherlock utterly loathed dead ends and going around in a circle. There was little pattern in this game of random and Sherlock was going to hunt down every clue he could grasp, even if just in his mind palace.

After twisting the golden front door knob with his hand and with the turn of his key, Sherlock entered the flat, placing his coat and hat on the coat rack, emitting a sigh of relief to be in the comfort of his own home, alone to think, despite the downward turn of events. Nothing could express the sheer disappointment he felt. He loved challenges, yet more than anything, despised being befuddled. It was like juggling three balls of yarn and one of them escaped him as the two left were tangled up in one another somehow. It was all a mess. And he was _most_ discontent with how he was mocked. He knew being sent the head was a mockery. This man, this mad doctor was proud of his crimes. He knew what he was doing to Sherlock and that was what Sherlock couldn’t allow anymore. 

After lighting a fire in his fireplace, he huffed and plopped down onto his Persian rug, sitting comfortably criss-crossed and ready to review any facts before him. Deeply breathing in, then slowly out, he drew himself into a meditative state, his eyes gradually shutting until the hot, red-orange and yellow, crackling flames became an afterimage in behind closed eyelids. Once it ceased, Sherlock quickly returned his focus to imagining his mind palace. A place with many doors, many rooms, and many halls to browse through. Each door was identical, but the room behind it very much not. Each held memories of events recorded like a film, pictures of things he’s taken with photographic memory, sounds, scents, tastes, and sensations he could recall by simply pressing it like a button. The halls were long, sometimes dark if memories became cloudy. But usually often well lit and easy to navigate. 

Sherlock strolled down the long hall, hands behind his back, adamantly scouring for the room he needed to go to. He knew where it was and it actually, it wasn’t very far at all. The greatest part about a mind palace was that everything was secure and it’s placed, never moved around, never different after every visitation. It was much simpler to organize his thoughts and his work this way, it was easy to attain and easy to file away. It was the only safe place Sherlock could visit when everything in the world around him felt otherwise. When troubled, he could visit anywhere he pleased, anywhere the door could lead him— where he intended. Perhaps he didn’t envy John Watson so much after all. Most people lost themselves in their silly thoughts and feelings. Sherlock Holmes was above that. He was a man of control, he knew how to control his thoughts, at least for the most part, and knew how to counter otherwise. 

He was content when he stopped at the door at the very end of the hall. The golden knob was gleaming from the imaginary light and screamed to be opened. He was so close, so very close. He twisted the knob and swung open the door excitedly. Newspaper clippings, faces, and names floated within this room. He shut the door and ambled forward with intrigue, eyes searching the memories. Anything unrelated would be dismissed with a wave of his hand. Good, he was ready to begin now.

The detective let his eyes wander around, reading and rereading things he’s stored, things that could be important to the case, and other things useful for later. Outstretching his hand, he reached towards the unending, floating universe that was this chamber of his mind, bringing to him the original two newspapers of the two most recent murders, checking the date and then the names, skimming through the article. It had to be something there. Something to guide him in the right direction. If there was anyone who knew how to hide in plain sight, it would be him. Now, who would be hiding in plain sight from him? If he was the killer, who would he be? And how would he seem undetectable like the taste of arsenic in a cup of Earl Grey. 

**MURDERESS**

**OLIVIA**

**RICHARDS**

**GOD**

**DEVILRY**

**BANK OF ENGLAND**

Sherlock knocked the words from his view one by one like a playful cat knocking things from a table. Another deep breath and he stopped— taking a look at his work thus far. It seemed as if Blanche was painted up to be the killer. Her alibis don’t check out exactly, only so with Robert Chesterfield’s head. It is possible to suspect an accomplice, but really, he recalled the image of Thomas Richards’ body in the bathtub quite perfectly and the marks around his neck. And now that he thought about it, they looked pattered, as though a necklace of death adorned his neck. But the pattern, the gruesome indents, were not only by a man’s hand, but his left hand, caused by what it seemed to be a fairly sized ring. It was unlikely the stone was diamond, nothing like a wedding ring. Something… more precious, something close to his heart as to why he’d wear it on his left finger of all places. But he couldn’t figure it out. Why couldn’t he figure it out?

He angrily brushed some words aside, another huff of frustration leaving him. Something was off. 

But before he could touch upon it, he froze. 

In the air around him, there was spice, like cinnamon misted his senses. Then lemon, the citrusy aftertaste invading him. Then lavender, as if plucked from the bush itself for an herbal brew, then wood as though he just chopped it himself with an axe; and lastly, vanilla, as though he were to bake a cake. It was drowning him all again, pushing and pulling him like a tug o’ war of concentration, faltering the Englishman as he grasped the work before him. Work he wouldn’t dare lose because of such a distraction. 

Jicky Guerlain. It was his newest poison, but one Sherlock wouldn’t dare let flood his veins.

As he shifted uncomfortably now in his sitting position, within his mind he was keeping himself calm in the midst of an earthquake. Why was it back? Why now? Plaguing him at the worst of times and of course, twice as strong. But thrice as alluring and he stumbled against a wall he immediately constructed, so he wouldn’t fall from his train of thought. That was the room he would stay in. That room and nothing else. As he leaned against the wall, he searched the room again for answers, ready to dismiss this scent with a wave of his hand, but was stopped by an unanticipated force by the tight grasp upon the wrist. Immediately, panic flooded him, but for the sake of his train of thought, he remained calm, allowing the words of ‘ **FOOTMAN** ’ and ‘ **SCOTLAND YARD** ’ to bounce away from his view as he steadied himself with a shaky breath. Of all the places in the world, he never felt such anxiety in the way he did in this moment. To be infiltrated in one’s own mind. It was in the next moment Sherlock turned his attention to the source of what grabbed his wrist that his eyes widened and his breaths became labored. 

Clutching his wrist was none other than James Moriarty, making a very unexpected visit. An unauthorized visit of all things. Never did Sherlock ever have people come to his mind. He invited them. But he didn’t invite Jim. Jim was the last person he was seeking in this. He knew very well he wasn’t the killer, so why did he make an appearance? And in fact, how did the wily bastard slip inside when his mind was guarded by the best security? 

“Why are _you_ here?” sneered Sherlock, eyeing him up and down with scorn.

“Naturally, out of want. Isn’t that what happens when humans think of something? Doesn’t it’s image manifest itself in its ideal form?” hummed Jim, slowly releasing his grip on Sherlock, his smile as impish as the Cheshire Cat’s. “You wanted me here. So there you have it, Holmes.”

“You didn’t kill Olivia Baxter nor Thomas Richards.”

“Are we stating the obvious now?”

“You don’t get your hands dirty.” Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall, keeping his balance as he slowly moved across the room, trying to keep some space from Jim.

“Only when I need to. I don’t like to. But then again, that depends on what you consider dirty.” winked the Irishman.

“Enough of that. Did you or didn’t you kill Robert Chesterfield?”

“Oh? So now we’re talking about Robert Chesterfield’s murder? Boring!” He teased, following Sherlock like a sinister shadow. “At least make an interesting accusation. I’ve killed before, but I very rarely involve myself in another’s mess. That’s what all of this is, just one big mess. Isn’t it, Holmes?”

“No, you’re right. That is boring. You wouldn’t do it for fun, what am I thinking?” muttered Sherlock, pressing his hands together in thought, placing his chin on the tips of his fingers, looking up to the evidence floating above his head. “No, you designed it for someone, but gift wrapped it for me…”

“And you’re welcome.” added Jim, now lounging about an intricately designed divan that somehow manifested itself in Sherlock’s room. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You’ve done it before, right under my nose. Out of sight most likely— you, you were the one who delivered Chesterfield's head. Am I wrong?”

“No, no, you’re very right. Hit it right on the nail.” waved Jim nonchalantly, emitting a dramatic sigh. 

“You planned my arrival there, timing and everything. You researched the police at Scotland Yard, chosen the right officer to guard the front door of Thomas Richard’s residence. You were there. It was quick, too quick, I wasn’t even there to see it or else I would’ve noticed sooner or later. You sent it.” rambled on Sherlock, pacing back and forth. 

“And your point?” drawled Jim, rather bored now. 

“I…” he stopped for a moment in his footsteps, trying to gather his thoughts more calmly. “...my point is that you delivered it. But you didn’t freeze it. You did as little work as you could, just to see your client play. Just to see me dance.”

A smirk curled onto Jim’s lips and the man hopped to his feet. “Good boy. What else?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“He’s a surgeon, a married surgeon or a married ex surgeon. Clearly didn’t use the kitchen icebox to freeze the head. No, this head had to be in some lab of his. One where no one else is permitted. New occupation, unknown, but clearly angry with the first murder. The second one was impulsive and third was mocking. What is the connection here?”

“What isn’t?”

“What isn’t?”

“What’s missing is the key, detective. I think it’s self explanatory. What’s been missing from the story? Seek and ye shall find.”

“The shop. Two of the murders thus far have been there. Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because Blanche Beaumont knows the killer.”

“And who’s the killer?” Jim approached Sherlock, who stood there unflinching. 

Sherlock sighed. “I… I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. She knows. It’s obvious. It’s on the tip of your tongue, isn’t it?” whispered Jim, only inches apart from him. His lips only hovered over Sherlock’s. “Come on, then, Mr. Clever, what did I tell you when we last met? Is your memory that unforgiving already?”

Another sigh left Sherlock, though this time shakily, his baby blue eyes were being swallowed by the oblivion that was Jim’s. How real he craved it to be, much to his distaste. 

“Or… is that a thought for another time?” breathed Jim, that scent of Jicky Guerlain plaguing him again, prompting Sherlock to fall beneath that same, dark and enthralling spell. One that was near impossible to fight.

“No, no it’s not. Get out.” demanded Sherlock coldly, eyes narrowing. With his cold exterior, he wore it over an interior of twists and turns named emotions. Emotions behind his control. “Don’t bother me if you plan on being a distraction.”

“How rude! Wasn’t it in your words that I ‘gift wrapped’ this all for you? You should be more grateful, dear,” he purred, making him shiver just a little, “it would be a shame if I cut out that pretty, little heart of yours and kept it in a jar for myself.” 

“My… my heart?” inquired Sherlock, breathlessly, feeling Jim’s hand dip into Sherlock’s waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a silver skeleton key. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. 

“Obviously. I would keep it as a trophy. To boast about how I stole something valuable from Sherlock Holmes, as I’m doing now,” he wiggled the key in front of Sherlock’s face, “I think you won’t be needing this anymore. I think I’ll find our visits much more… frequent.”

Sherlock scoffed, eyes searching Jim’s for malicious intent. Something in him was rising, a warmth foreign and yet so familiarly felt only in Jim’s presence. He didn’t understand why. He didn’t want to. But as much as he tried to push it away, in his mind palace of all places, the thought overpowered him as a bolt of lightning striking down a tree. “D-don’t be ridiculous… you can’t steal something… something that… that already… belongs to you?”

“ _Oh?_ ”

With the mocking sound of an O dragged out annoyingly, Sherlock snapped back into reality, watching as his dark counterpart laughed in amusement at Sherlock’s very red and shocked face. God, he despised him and his wicked laughter! Even more, Sherlock couldn’t believe those words left him. It was as though these words weren’t his at all! They were a stranger’s. Something foreign he never believed he would ever think to himself. He backed into a wall again, his brows furrowing as mind palace Jim had the thrill of a lifetime. Good riddance, once he really left this place. No more of this madman to deal with. At least, he imagined until the case was over. He was sure if Jim was persistent as before, he would return with more goodies for him to solve.

“No! I didn’t mean that!” argued Sherlock, however weakly. “That wasn’t true!”

“And Roman senators didn’t mean to stab Julius Caesar.” hummed Jim, rather sarcastically. 

“I’m _not_ my intrusive thoughts.”

“No, but you are the thoughts you think most often.”

“What?”

“That was a fact. That was a subconscious thought, would you like me to go find it again? I’m sure it wouldn’t take long.” 

“No. _No_. Wait. You mentioned the heart. Olivia Baxter’s heart was stolen. Could it have been symbolic of her love for someone else or vice versa?” thought Sherlock aloud in his mind palace, walking past Jim as he found his concentration on the case again. 

“Or someone else’s. Many different kinds of love. Oh. What an ordinary concept. A curse upon my tongue.” cringed Jim. “So not my forte.”

“Jealous love. Ex lovers get jealous. Friends. Family.”

“Think it was a message? I mean, if it was meant for Olivia, the murders would have stopped at her.”

“Right. It was a warning. And the eyes, they’re symbolic of sight. Vision. Future, perhaps.”

“Very right, and who sees with a vision as yourself?”

“Mycroft.”

“No. Someone else.”

“...Miss Beaumont?”

“And?” 

“It was a warning to her.”

“But who loves her enough to make her fear for life itself?”

“The more important question is, who loathes her enough to make her fear for life itself? Someone isn’t fond of the psychic, detective, I wonder who that could be. The man who beat her last night, I wonder why she was so quiet about him, you know. Quite the puzzle.” 

“He's someone close.”

“A lover then.”

“She’s not spoken for. She’s expressed her attraction to me in the most respectful way possible.”

“A friend.”

“Hardly. A friend wouldn’t be so passionate. The symbolism is unique.”

“Family?”

Sherlock paused for a moment to consider. “Perhaps. Someone is angry with her, jealous even, stole the heart as a way of telling her that whoever’s heart she stole was his to begin with. Could be mother, father, another sibling. And the eyes were a message of her no longer having a future to look forward to. The mocking head was specifically for me because he knows I’ve been led round in a circle. He thinks I’m getting ahead of myself, but I’m not. I have to let her know she’s in danger.”

“But she’s safe with you, isn’t she?” inquired Jim as he glanced at his nails. “You’re protecting her at 221B. She and Mrs. Hudson could be the best of friends.”

“No, I left her alone and she’s a magnet for trouble, like _some_ people I know. I should go.” He mumbled, adjusting his waistcoat. Unfortunately, his pocket watch was left outside his mind, so it was not brought with him to check the time. 

“And leave me behind?” Sherlock wasn’t sure why Jim sounded so sad. But he dismissed it.

“Oh please. You’re always up to no good, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around again.” scoffed Sherlock, turning to the door.

“Then look forward to me misbehaving more. All for you.” Jim blew a kiss. “Til next time, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock couldn’t fight the smile that was coming to his lips. He placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it, slowly opening the door. And it was the sooner he left his room, that he found himself opening his eyes again. This time it was to see the dying of a fire. Time was hazy and his mind was just processing all that he thought of in the lone hours of deductions. And of course, the unexplained mysteries of Jim’s little appearance, and how it actually helped him solve the case faster then scouring paper memories for names and connections. He cleared his throat and turned his head to the clock. As it read ten past six, Sherlock immediately stood up in a panic, almost losing his balance after being in a meditative state for so long. He didn’t realize how quickly time passed when he swore he was there no longer than two hours. Perhaps now he would listen to John more about being mindful of the time as he deduced away. 

“Miss Beaumont!” He called out, rather loudly. He knew it was pointless but he still needed to try, just in case. “Miss Beaumont!”

He hastily went to his coat rack and threw on his coat and his top hat, not even taking the time to button it. Rushing out of the flat, he slammed the door, and stampeded down the stairs as though he were escaping a burning home. This earned an opened door from Mrs. Hudson, who was just getting up early to water her plants, all dressed in her little nightgown. She frowned as she saw Sherlock in a troubled state, wondering whatever the matter was. After all, she always worried for Sherlock as she would a son. That’s what he was like anyhow. A troubled son she wanted to take care of as much as possible. Lord knows what his real mother would think if Mrs. Hudson didn’t provide her old fashioned tenderness at all. It was almost a sin. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, dear, what’s wrong?” She asked.

“Miss Beaumont, do you know where she went?”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I don’t. Last I remember she was telling me good night because she was tired, so she went upstairs. Finished sewing up my other nightgown and everything.” She explained. “That was about, mm, maybe six hours ago?”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time. He hurried through the hall and opened the front door, rushing out in a heartbeat. To think he was so ahead, the killer got right under his nose again, right when he was quite close. And that was what irritated him the most. 

He hailed a cab on the side of the street and made no attempt to consider if anyone else was inside just coming out. The Englishman sat inside and padded the vehicle at its ceiling, telling the man to head to Oxford St in Marylebone. Letting her out of his sight for once! He never should have! But she had a mind of her own. He knew she would check on that silly little shop again and this is what he got for having her in the care of Mrs. Hudson late at night. Surely, the first time was his fault, but she was still very much a suspect roaming the streets. Why would she leave when she knew she was in danger? It was unthinkable and no amount of mad explanation could satisfy the question. It was a mad thing to do. Madness and foolishness, to think that she was even protected from it. No, not unless she was with someone. Someone she trusted, even if it was for the hour away from Baker Street. And of course, if she were going to Oxford Street time and time again, it was more than likely something in there was valuable. Something she was making sure had the utmost care and was safe from vile hands. 

After at least ten minutes, Sherlock arrived at Oxford Street, the first he would be visiting the shop. He didn’t even bother to check what money he was giving the cab driver as he nearly stumbled, looking drunk, slapping a pretty sovereign in his hand as he quickly approached the shop, with its window posters of price ranges for readings, seances, spellwork. All the curtains were shut, which meant that something private has happened or is still happening now. He clutched the silver knob of the door and without further hesitation, twisted it round, and swung it open as if he were about to save the Queen, using his other hand to withdraw his pistol just in case.

But as Sherlock opened the door and stepped forward, he immediately stumbled right back, with wide eyes at the grotesque and yet, uniquely peculiar sight before him. A sight he would most likely never forget, a sight that no murder has ever compared to. For if anyone fell sick in love with madness, they’d find this the darkest of art among all things immoral. The pistol once firmly held dropped from his fingers, almost slipping from them like butter. It was a hazard, to no one more than him, but paid little mind to it now as awe possessed him completely.

All he could hear was a scream from a passerby outside who happened to peek in. 

And the call for the police to come. 

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve been on here and writing actively. I DIDN’T LOSE INTEREST I AM JUST AN ADULT WITH LITTLE FREE TIME. I do my best to add little parts with every chapter any time I do have the down time and I have inspiration. I miss writing, be it poetry, songs, stories, hell, even fanfiction. It certainly does take you away from the ails of every day life.
> 
> Anyhow, please enjoy! Please help me if I made a mistake and point it out for me to correct. Please leave a comment if you read and enjoyed it!!!
> 
> I will also update The Sentimental Detective soon, I’ve just had more muse for this Sheriarty fic at the moment so please don’t feel like I’m abandoning that piece.

What was death like? Humans have pondered the very question since conceptual thought formed in their minds. Some found it a saving grace from their realities, a release, an afterlife of peace, others found it to be their one and only doom, often an afterlife of chaos for their wrongdoings. And regardless of whether one was of faith or not, death was the cessation of all feeling and thought, and the muse and tragedy of many great poets. But could death be like slumber, with endless dreaming? Or body hopping as one soul to another wherever fate directed it? Surely, death was not itself an enemy, or a hero, not even a friend, but the inevitable truth of nature in everything that could rot. The inevitable truth of beauty with a grotesque form. 

So why did it send a chill down Sherlock Holmes’ spine?

It had taken a while for Sherlock to gather himself before he was prepared to investigate the newest body he himself stumbled across. Only this time, the body was far too recognizable for him for him to deeply concentrate. And the state in which he found it, at the very least, was a unique one, in fact. 

Terribly bruised neck. The body itself, limp, motionless, almost like a ragdoll hanging by a thread as it hung from the rough noose tied around the neck. Skin cold to the touch, like an icicle formed upon a tree. At the feet laid a tarot card, The Hanged Man.

[ ](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5916d4da2994ca3bd87b3a87/1520533720925-79WYGBBYJIY4HU30MLUL/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kA2KgYt-CYMPRJ6qEAo-SflZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWhcwhEtWJXoshNdA9f1qD7Xj1nVWs2aaTtWBneO2WM-sTAQTYeES3vmeMpzmAkanxuMRHOB4FQjfm-ul7hwkcVg/IMG_1341.JPG?format=500w)

Sherlock could not tell whether the card was reversed or not or what it meant (which meant more time researching occult novelties). He pursed his lips as he handed it to Inspector Lestrade for evidence, examining the face and neck thoroughly, frustrated with himself that he failed to be sooner. Being a step behind was unlike him and he had no one to assign the fault other than Jim Moriarty himself. When he found nothing, he once more returned his attention to the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, who crossed his arms with a puzzled expression on his features.

“You know her?”

“Obviously. She owns the shop.”

“That isn’t what I meant, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock paused for a moment and allowed a small sigh to escape him.

“She was my client.”

“Right then. I’m sorry to about your lo-”

“Save it, Lestrade, she was my client not my friend.” snapped the consulting detective. “And I’ve already finished, so you can take her down and transport her corpse to the morgue.”

Greg was taken aback by Sherlock’s irritable behavior. Of course, it wasn’t the first time he had to deal with a moody Holmes, but the detective was indeed a handful this morning. He usually didn’t like to be bossed around, but he allowed Sherlock the courtesy this one time (one time too many, in fact) feeling sympathy for his friend and the loss of his client. He knew Sherlock wasn’t the kind of man to really admit what he felt, and if it were true, that there was a soft spot for the poor lady, he was just as human as anyone else in that room. He instructed the constables to cut the rope and place her on the stretcher. As gently as a single, white feather falling to the floor, like a feather off an angel’s wing, the young woman was laid down. 

Her eyes, wide open, staring blankly into nothingness. No life, no vigor were behind them. They were empty, dark, and void of the charisma and youth they once held. No wonder why most found it so upsetting to see such a sight. In a way, this expression of pain on her was unfitting. And he refused to remember her that way. Not when she was much more charming and memorable for her other attributes. The Englishman swept his hand over her face, shutting her eyelids to at least make it appear as though she were asleep, perhaps one with her God or the universe, whatever she believed in. But this was human fate, all what humans were meant to do, meant to become. To be born, live, learn, eat, shit, procreate, and then meant to decay. But some, some humans, did have a life that meant something apart from the mundane and trivial, above the idea of God and Magick that made them truly charming. And for their impact, however small, they were immortal in the minds and hearts of others. And Blanche would live in his mind for eternity, for she was a woman of impressive work herself— even if it were decorated with a term like ‘divination’. 

“Rest well, Miss Beaumont.”

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


Abigail, the housekeeper in John Watson’s home, fixed a cup of tea for Sherlock as he sat down on the intricately decorative settee by the window in the sitting room. Sherlock could tell by the way she fidgeted after delivering the tea that she was quite nervous in front of the new guest, as she knew who he was. Quite well. But having him in their very home was another story. And she felt intimidated by Sherlock’s observant gaze. But of course, one wouldn’t have to feel nervous if they aren’t guilty of anything at all. But Sherlock saw right through her. By first glance, the wrinkles in her uniform gave way of her absence the night before. Being away instead of home, watching after Mary as John typically expected of her. Being away at a lover’s flat. Well, it was no problem to Sherlock, it wasn’t much of his concern or care. Just a boring woman in love. 

“Much appreciated.” said Sherlock simply, taking the teacup from her, mildly admiring the design— it had to have been of Wedgwood manufacturing. It was very much like Mary to own a vibrantly styled tea set; pink, wide, detailed roses in bloom, its stems outstretching every which way, and touches of blue in the leaves and buds. He wrinkled his nose a bit when he noticed it was chamomile by the scent and yellowish color. He wasn’t particularly fond of the blend.

“All you have is chamomile right now?” He looked at her, almost offended.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can get you something else if you’d like—”

John raised his hand to his housekeeper.

“That’ll be all, Abigail, thank you. He’s fine.”

Abigail nodded in understanding, took one last worried glance to Sherlock, all before heading off to tend to her other homely duties.

“I don’t like chamomile.”

John sighed. “You need it. Chamomile is a calming herb.”

“And what makes you think I’m not calm?” frowned Sherlock, glaring at John as though the man just flipped him off.

“I do wonder how you’re the most blindly observant man I’ve ever known.” John sat down across from him on the opposite settee. “You don’t even realize it yourself that you’re trembling.”

Sherlock glanced down to his body, the tea in his cup rippling from the tremors of his shaking hand. It was involuntary. On the ride to John’s home from the shop, Sherlock hadn’t been aware of it. In a way, he felt awfully silly for not noticing sooner, yet than again, Sherlock was the kind of person to be observant of everyone and everything but himself. He himself was a mystery often difficult to decipher. He couldn’t even know when it came about and if it only came for short periods of time and relaxed. One could say he was experiencing shock. But Sherlock would only scoff at them. 

“No, you’re right, I am.” replied the detective in defeat. 

“Drink.” He encouraged Sherlock. “And tell me what’s happened.”

Sherlock made an uneasy face before sipping the tea, wincing at the flavor. 

“I don’t suppose you have anything stronger to drink? Like scotch… or vodka?”

“Holmes, this isn’t funny. I would be working right now if you weren’t here! Why did you randomly come to my home so early in the morning?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, letting his gaze fall to his reflection in the tea, watching it look back at him almost critically before letting his gaze rise to a slightly impatient John Watson.

“Miss Beaumont. She was found hanging in her shop. Well, I found her. Hanging. In her shop.” recalled Sherlock, sipping the tea again before making yet another sour face. Yet despite the flavor, it did help his hand to start to relax. 

John was in awe. “Jesus, my god, the poor woman! How bloody awful, I wonder what drove her to do such a thing. All of that slander around her name must have been too much to bear. I know I’d go mad. Her family must be so devastated. Do they know yet?”

“How should I know? Lestrade and his lot handle all of… that. And besides, she didn’t seem to be much of a family woman. From what I could read of her, she was estranged.” Sherlock set the tea cup down. “So who knows where they could be. England, France…”

“Well, there should be records somewhere. Something. They should know she killed herself. She’s someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s niece…”

“But that’s the thing, Watson. She didn’t kill herself.” He mentioned as he saw Mary’s little lap dog, Marigold, come running in as if having a guest was a grand event for her. “She was murdered. The bruising around her neck… it wasn’t from the rope, it couldn’t have been. It’s all too familiar.”

“Are you suggesting that she was murdered by the same person who…”

“Obviously.” He stated, watching as the Pomeranian scurried up to John for affection. “It doesn’t seem like her to do this. In fact, it just isn’t. She may have been under a lot of pressure, but not enough to do that. She was adamant for our assistance in this, it wouldn’t make sense.”

John glanced down at Marigold and stroked his hand over her little, fluffy head, though more focused on Sherlock and what he was saying.

“As much as I want to agree with you, what can we do to even prove it? Holmes, I think you still are in shock, wanting to put a blame to a name and that’s completely understandable. She had a lot of trouble in the end, of course she wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

“Watson, please.” Sherlock stood up irritably, rather annoyed with the sentimentalism of John’s personality. “She didn’t kill herself. Of all people I would know. Don’t you think it’s a bit too convenient for her to die right when we are on the path of who the killer might be?”

The ex army doctor retracted his hand from the Marigold’s head and held both hands up in defeat for a few moments before letting them rest on his lap.“I suppose you’re right, you know best after all.”

“Of course I do.” remarked Sherlock, adjusting his waistcoat. “I’m going to the police station. I can’t let this case end like this. It’s too simple.”

“Sometimes stories have disappointing ends, you can’t always bend them to your will and make them more interesting.” stood John.

“I don’t have to. I obviously wouldn’t have taken it up in the first place if it was a suicide case. It was gifted as murder.” He sauntered out of the room whilst checking his pocket watch. “Oh, and Watson, before I go, you may want to do something about your pomeranian, she’s left you her gift all over your shoes and floor.”

John furrowed his brows for a moment in puzzlement before glancing down to his shoes to see piss coating his loafers and the wooden floor. He turned bright red out of embarrassment and irritation, huffing at the little rascal dog. Mary’s little bundle of joy, apparently.

“Christ! You spoiled little—!” He fussed. “Abigail, clean this up! And bring me new shoes!”

As Sherlock was leaving, he could hear John throwing a fit about his wife’s animal. From ‘damn dog’ to ‘infuriating little mutt’. Best to have left his hot headed friend then and there, for John would simply explode like a volcano if he saw him smirking the way he did now in sadistic amusement for his friend’s small misfortune. He commended Mary for having such a charming pet around. Though this one was hardly obedient.

Well, this was only the beginning of the end. Jim wouldn’t really leave him with such a waste, would he? Even Lestrade was more promising than that. He trusted Jim would have more generosity than that. This case was far from over.

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


After meeting with Greg at the police station, they were able to uncover a file on Blanche Beaumont. Sherlock mentally noted the information as he flipped through the pages of her file, with only a few photographs for identity purposes, including the recent one taken of her for her arrest. An English citizen, her mother was an African ex-slave and her father was an upper middle class gentleman who unexpectedly fell in love with her on a trip to Louisiana in 1865. He was already divorced with an Englishwoman named Harriet Beaumont [neé Blake], who later died in 1870. Her mother, [birth name unknown] the ex-slave by her slave given name of Caroline Jennings, died shortly after Blanche turned seven years old from tuberculosis. At the age of ten, her father also succumbed to illness with a vicious fever he never recovered from. Her elder brother, Francis Beaumont, had to take care of her until she was old enough to do so herself. 

Once finished, Sherlock handed the file back to the Inspector, standing from his seat and dusting off a hair from his coat.

“Do you have her brother’s address on file?” 

“Who’s her brother now?” inquired Greg.

“Francis Beaumont, Lestrade, now keep up.” snapped Sherlock as Greg took the file from him.

The police inspector frowned at Sherlock’s response. Not the unusual behavior of the finicky detective, but he could tell there was something there that wasn’t right. It didn’t take a genius detective to figure it out either. Though he daren’t ask regardless. The silver haired man simply let the other do what he pleased. He didn’t care to fuss and as much as he wanted to punch Sherlock at times, he kept himself composed. Well, at least his patience was nowhere near as thin as Sherlock’s doctor companion. 

He circled around his desk and exited the room. After at least five minutes and thirty six seconds (Sherlock was counting), he returned with a small sheet of paper, of which he deduced was copied from Francis’ file. He placed it on the desk in front of Sherlock, wordlessly moving back to his seat, where piles of paperwork had been neglected, beside a half eaten éclair, likely all brought to him by Anderson to try and compensate for his incompetence during work, and the small cup of coffee which left a thin ring on one of the unimportant documents lying beneath— caffeine for a long day. He was a hard working man indeed. But left the nitty gritty to he-who-knows-best. He trusted Sherlock’s word if he really did believe this was a murder. And knowing how indelicate he was too, surely this Francis and his family would not appreciate Sherlock being the bearer of unfortunate news. Bless the sorry sod.

“There’s the address, try not to make anyone cry more than they have to.” commented Greg, picking up his cup of coffee. 

“No promises.” smiled Sherlock, immediately making an exit right as the inspector placed his cup back down.

  
  
  
  


**116 Cyrus St**

**Clerkenwell, London**

Thankfully, John complied with Sherlock’s wish for him to accompany him to the address Greg gave to him. Of course, John was eager to go mostly because he knew how insensitive the carefree detective could be, and it was of the utmost importance that he kept his dear friend in check. So the two of them met together at a cafe in Covent Garden and discussed the case in short intervals as they drank their tea. A part of Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder what to expect. Blanche was so much not like others her age, he would really be amazed if this Francis turned out to be a disappointment of a relative. 

It was during the short ride there in the hansom cab he had a revelation of sorts. When John went on and on about some political scandal in the newspaper he couldn’t care less about, Sherlock was absorbed in the thought of Jim. All he could think about is how and why he was the one to direct the current of his thoughts elsewhere for the case. Often, his mind palace was a place of refuge and solitude. People only came when they were victims or clients, or even people he interacted with on the daily to aid in his contemplation on the cases he worked on. But to have James Moriarty appear in his mind and dominate every thought was really just a frightening thing. But it wasn’t so much that Jim was frightening as his power over him was. It was like being intoxicated without a single drop of liquor in your bloodstream. It was like being high without the drug. No matter how hard he thought, there was no logical explanation for his appearance, and it made Sherlock all the more irritable. 

But with the violent stop of the hansom cab, Sherlock lurched forward, knocking him out of his contemplative thoughts and bringing him to the present. He was prepared to fire off at the driver for being so inadequate with his driving before John placed a hand before him. He didn’t need to hear his friend have a fit over something so insignificant. 

“It’s not the time. Just leave. I’ll pay him.” He sighed, removing his hand and allowing Sherlock to exit the cab first. 

After John paid the cabbie, he joined Sherlock at his side as the two approached the front door of the address where Francis Beaumont lived. After using the door knocker at least three times, it was only a minute after that the door was answered. He heard the unlocking of the doorknob and twist of it before it was opened, revealing a plump woman no older than thirty-five. She wore a large plaited braid over her parted, brunette hair. Her large, doe like green eyes blinked quizzically at the two men though a polite smile touched her lips.

“Good evening, gentleman. I don’t suppose you’re friends of my husband, are you? We weren’t expecting any guests tonight.” 

“Excuse us, Miss, we are both working on behalf of Scotland Yard.” said John, removing his top hat. “My name is Dr. John Watson and this is my colleague and friend Sherlock Holmes. May we come in?”

Sherlock also removed his top hat. “We need to speak with a man named Francis Beaumont. I presume that would be your husband?”

The Englishwoman frowned with concern, her brows knitting in thought at what possibly could have been wrong. She nodded, kindly allowing them inside as she stepped aside, holding the door open. As John and Sherlock entered, gesturing for them to join her in the sitting room. She shut the door behind them and led them there, her husband just near, sitting by the fire and smoking a cigar whilst reading the paper. When he heard the footsteps of the trio, he immediately placed his paper down onto his lap and glanced up, removing the cigar from his mouth to blow out the smoke.

“Gracie, what’s going on? Who are these people?” He inquired, looking to his wife for answers.

“They’re working with the police. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. I couldn’t imagine what for, but they’re here for you.” replied Grace, looking to him in some confusion.

“For me? Aren’t I a lucky man? Getting bad news right when I’m having a cigar at the end of a work day.” He sighed, taking another puff from his cigar. “Imported straight from Cuba. These are from my elite set.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John laughed a bit awkwardly to break the tension. 

“Yes, well, Mr. Beaumont, we do apologize for interrupting your private time. But we are here to inform you of something rather dire that requires your attention.”

“Well then, get to the point with it.”

Sherlock sighed irritably.

“Mr. Beaumont, your sister has been found dead this morning,” he snapped, “Blanche Beaumont has been deceased most likely since 2AM this morning. Hanging in her shop.”

Francis froze in place whilst he spoke, his eyes widening at Sherlock and John as the news passed through him like a ghost. He shuddered in his seat at the thought. His face, gone rather pale. Slowly, blinking as though to process the information he heard, he removed his cigar from his mouth and put it out in his little ashtray on the coffee table.

“Oh dear! How dreadful, Francis!” Grace looked over to her husband with her hands clasped over her mouth in despair. “Oh my god, how awful, poor Blanche!”

She quickly went to her husband’s side to console him, but Francis only remained still and silent. But after a few seconds, he scoffed.

“Blanche? My little sister Blanche? Psychic and all that? I can’t believe that. She’s not the kind of woman to go off and kill herself. And of all places at that ridiculous little shop.” He laughed dryly, shaking his head. “It’s not her. She was perfectly fine when I last saw her. I bailed her out of jail and she was fine.”

“It’s completely understandable to be in denial, sir, but Scotland Yard and Mr. Holmes here had confirmed it to be her. Given her circumstances, it was possible she felt overwhelmed by the scandal surrounding her name. Regarding how she died is still being investigated, however. So it may not have been by suicide, but it is likely.” explained John, calmly.

“Balderdash! You just said she killed herself, so why would you say it’s still being investigated?” fumed Francis. “How should I believe what any of you say when I know my sister better than you lot!”

“Francis, please, calm down—” Grace attempted to soothe him, turning to Sherlock and John with tears in her eyes, before turning back to Francis. “I do apologize to you two— oh Francis, my love, please calm down, we have to trust the police, they have good reason for what they say and do.”

“We never said she killed herself, we said she was found dead, hanging in her shop.” snarled Sherlock. “She may have also been very well murdered, but the circumstances are murky.”

“Easy, Holmes.” reminded John under his breath.

In the following moments, Francis broke down, face buried in the palms of his hands, weeping. He was hunched over, pathetic looking in front of the burning fire, like a sulking dog in need of a bone to chew on. Sights like this were one of the worst sights to witness when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t feel any empathy for him or his wife. He simply was like that. Dying was a part of life. Death was transcendence. It was the fate each and every one of them had to face at the very end. Of course, Sherlock couldn’t help but find the situation of which she was deceased to be nothing more than offensive. He had a deep respect for Blanche which was exactly why he was determined to solve her case. It was unfinished.

“Good lord,” he sniffled, eyes wet with tears, rising from his palms to wipe his eyes, “she can’t be gone, please tell me she isn’t.”

“On behalf of Scotland Yard, we give you our deepest condolences.” said John softly, gently grabbing at his top hat. “We truly are sorry this happened.”

“Thank you.” She sniffled, wiping her own eyes of her sorrow.

“We can give you the address of where her body is currently at and when you’re able, you can give her a proper funeral, and do whatever with her you must.” said John. “For now, we understand if you need time to grieve.”

“Please— Dr. Watson, and you too Mr. Holmes— stay for supper, at the very least.” She offered. “We do appreciate all of your hard work. I know Blanche would appreciate it too.”

“We couldn’t possibly.” smiled John sadly, waving off the offer. “Mr. Holmes and I can’t stay very long either. Duty awaits us, after all.”

“Then please stay for tea.” She rubbed her husband’s back. “My husband and I don’t mind at all. You came all this way to let us know this terrible news, I wish to only compensate for it. Please.”

“I… I suppose I can stay for a cup.” admitted John defeatedly with a sigh. 

“I won’t take any. Had tea before I arrived, if you don’t mind.” smiled Sherlock most bitterly, quite bored out of his mind at this point.

Grace gestured them both to the settee to have a seat and get comfortable, even if it wasn’t for very long. As John and Sherlock sat down, Grace excused herself and left the sitting room to go into the kitchen to make the tea. Francis glanced over to them, looking sullen and much older with his tear streaked face and sad eyes.

“She was my little sister, you know. She would be the last person I imagine this happening to.” He frowned. 

“It’s truly unfortunate. Is there any other family of hers, yours, that need to know?” inquired John.

Francis shook his head with another sniffle. “God no. I’m all she had left. It was just her and I growing up. Me and my little sister. I know it’s a curious concept, how she was my little sister and all, as we look nothing alike. She’s my half sister. But I practically raised her after Papa died. I was only fifteen. Had to support us both by working part time at a restaurant just on St John’s Street, just until I was old enough to get real work and had the time to continue my education. It was just and her and I until she wished to part ways.”

“I imagine you were rather close then?” said John most sympathetically.

“That depends on your definition of close. We grew up close as could be, but we were as different as ever.” He shrugged. “We had different interests, our identities clashed, but I was there when I needed to be. I did what I found best for her.”

“You sound like a wonderful brother.” replied the ex-army doctor.

“Christ.” murmured Sherlock underneath his breath before standing. “If I may, I would like to use your water closet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.” Francis stood out of respect for his guest, guiding him to the door and pointing him in the direction of the restroom.

After Francis left, Sherlock sauntered down the hall. He didn’t really need to use the restroom. But he did need to leave the sitting room and properly gather his thoughts. The events of that evening were becoming more and more overwhelming to him and to be alone is what he craved the most. Before reaching his destination, he happened to notice her as he passed the kitchen door as it sat open, and Grace stroked the hair of a little boy that was likely her son. 

“Go on then, you. The grown-up men will be leaving shortly and then we’ll be having supper.” She told the boy in a hushed tone.

The little looked up to her with a small smile and nodded, hurrying out to go play with his toys in his bedroom. She watched as he scurried off, smiling at the sight before nearly jumping in shock, not realizing Sherlock was there in the hallway too, having seen the exchange between the two of them.

“Oh— goodness, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t see you there. I didn’t mean to say that I didn’t find you and Dr. Watson’s company by any means a hassle. My son is just a bit hungry.” She reassured him, a hand over her heart.

“Not a problem, Mrs. Beaumont. We’ll be gone soon.” replied Sherlock. “I was just on my way to your water closet.”

“Oh, please, do go, I won’t hold you any longer. You’re more than welcome.” She smiled. “And thank you again, really. I’m sorry about my husband’s outburst earlier. He’s a bit hot-tempered sometimes.”

“It’s really all right. Anger and denial are always the first stages of grievance. And I’m sure after a hard day’s work, it was too much and too sudden.” explained Sherlock. 

“Indeed, he’s been under quite a bit of stress lately. Money has been… well, tight. We are doing the best we can to keep ourselves afloat.” She sighed, placing the teacups on the tray along with the teapot. “And I believe he can pull through.”

Sherlock smiled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. “Right. Well then. I shall leave you to it.”

She gave him one more smile before turning to her tray of tea again. 

Sherlock carried onto the restroom and stepped inside, top hat firmly held against his chest. With a relieved sigh, he glanced around, from the sink to the toilet, to the window, taking in his surroundings, thinking to himself and contemplating the events of that evening. Sherlock found socializing tiring enough, but informing someone of their loss was far more draining. In a way, he had to admit he was grateful to John for coming along with him. Sherlock would have not been able to withstand the frustrations of such tedious formalities of sentiment. 

Then again, a hypocrite never was one to recognize their own contradictions. Death was something Sherlock was all too familiar with in his line of work. His career guaranteed it. He even placed himself many times in the hands of death, played with it like a cat with yarn, and moved under the guise of death before returning back to Baker Street years later. Death was always there. But he felt nothing toward it. He was not moved by it— that was until he realized James Moriarty was among the living. It was until he realized that neither he or his criminal counterpart perished beneath the Reichenbach waters. It was then that he recognized the ache in him he so long ignored since. The dullness in the form of chronic boredom. It was the pain that rushed through him when he knew he withstood the rocks and waterfall; the pain of his beloved arch nemesis returning from the dead for him. There was a satisfying cruelty to it— to know that he was willing to punish Sherlock long enough to make him believe that to a degree, he too was a being so capable of sentiment. 

Impressively sadistic. Game well played. But Sherlock understood. And he learned his lesson well—no matter how masochistic he was to receive the teachings. But the beauty and ugliness of the pain was knowing that with death not having claimed them both yet, or Jim entirely, that now there was still more of a chance of losing him to no other fate than the one awaiting him yet. It was the addiction of knowing that he walked the Earth, devoted to his torment, and that there was life that remained to his name. It was knowing Sherlock Holmes was even just a passing thought in James Moriarty’s mind, just a part of a master plan crafted ever so precisely by a mind so wickedly enchanting, a mind as immortal as time itself. Such a mind surpassed the concept of Memento Mori. 

Memento Mori. 

Anytime he remembered Blanche Beaumont, he thought of the expression. To remember inevitable death. He too found that her death was one of loss for himself. In no way comparable to the degree of loss he felt with Jim, but he found her death a different kind of loss. It was the unsatisfactory end of her demise that frustrated him. Of all people in the world, she was a clever and genuine mind that truly didn’t deserve it. Her company rivaled that of John’s, and the consulting detective did not think that of most. Surely, her cleverness was wrapped up in occult foolishness, but the man had given her credit where it was due: she was a rare mind. He was sure with her skills of deduction and probability she even rivaled that of the memorable Miss Irene Adler— the very first woman to beat him. 

And would he miss her company like he did with John when away with Mary. It was like no other.

As he ran his fingers through his slicked back, silky brown hair, slightly dishelving its set form, he tried to gather himself again before returning to the others. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from his surroundings to the mirror above the sink, approaching it and studying himself. After setting aside his top hat, he turned on the faucet and ran the cool water over his large, pale hands before dipping down and gently splashing his face. But as he rose back up, letting the droplets of water slide down his face, allowing the sensation of the air cool against his skin to dry, he noticed something beside the mirror upon the green wallpaper. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion as he noticed a tiny speck of crimson on a piece of peeling wallpaper. Immediately, as if on instinct, Sherlock slipped out the magnifying glass he always carried with him from his pocket and brought it up to his eye to better see his newest discovery. 

Closer and closer he drew to it, the larger the speck became. It was a deep crimson shade. In his other pocket he withdrew a little vial and tweezers, and gently scraped and picked at the dried up substance. After pocketing it, his thoughts raced like bullets. Because the walls were laid out with green wallpaper, it was difficult to determine the source of it. However, he doubted it would be red paint because in peeking behind the small piece of wallpaper, he could see the bit of wall in plain sight was white, and judging by the household of three and an unborn child, no one had the hands of a painter. 

The way Francis Beaumont held his cigar proved that he was indelicate and would not wield a paintbrush gracefully. Grace seemed like a plain woman with very generic tastes. Nothing about her spoke as an artist, not in the way she held the tray with tea nor did she seem to suffer from a cramped hand— which most artists did indeed suffer from at the easel for hours on end. In fact, neither of their hands had a residue of paint upon them like most artists did, no matter how often they cleaned their hands. Their nails were as immaculate as the kitchen floors of Buckingham Palace. Lastly, her son was much too small to reach the sink and the speck was much too high to have been cast at the angle of height in which he stood, for had he been able to cause such a speck, there would be more than one, and paint in itself was a difficult task to clean. And it was unthinkable to imagine it were the blood of raw meat for meals, for no one would handle such things in the setting of a restroom. 

Sherlock would have gone on further before the overly-polite voice of Grace inquired about Sherlock being okay. He quickly returned to his stoic state, collected his hat, and cleared his throat, fixing himself up before heading to the door. He opened it slowly and saw her standing right outside the door.

“Yes. Apologies for taking my time.” smiled Sherlock.

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Holmes. I was just coming to tell you that Dr. Watson said he is ready to leave when you are.”

“But of course. We shan’t overstay our welcome.” He told her.

With that said, she led him back into the sitting room where John was. Sherlock placed on his top hat and looked to the ex-army doctor with shifty eyes, a hidden message only John would could receive.

“Come along, Watson, we have quite a bit to do tonight with our work.” said Sherlock, walking across the room towards the fireplace where Francis sat in front of.

Francis glanced up to Sherlock and stood.

“My apologies for my outburst earlier. I still need to process this… horrific grief.” He smiled at Sherlock sadly.

“Quite fine, Mr. Beaumont, it’s nothing of importance to me.” He explained, letting his gaze wander past the man for a moment to inspect the box of cigars on his mantelpiece. 

Then a wicked idea came to mind.

“Oh dear, what a terrible coincidence, we smoke the same cigars!” lied Sherlock expressively, lifting up the box, his thumb discreetly sliding off the latch of the wooden box. However, in the next moment, seven tumbled out into the fire.

“Christ, my cigars! Look at what you’ve bloody done!” roared Francis, getting to his knees and taking a chance of the fire by reaching as best as he could for the ones that weren’t burning terribly. 

“Oh, so very sorry! How clumsy I am!” once more lied the detective, fighting the urge to smirk.

Immediately after sticking in his hand, Francis pulled it out with a horrified shriek, his hand having been burned by one of the flames. It was red and beginning to blister staggeringly. Grace gasped loudly and Sherlock feigned panic, rushing to his counsel and taking his hands to inspect thoroughly. Only one hand was burned— not severely, but enough to cause minor damage to the outer layer of his skin and needed but a week or so to heal.

“My goodness sir, this is all my fault—” rambled on Sherlock, his eyes grazing over his nails and palm, acting as though he were checking for any more injuries.

“Get your hands off of me! It certainly is your fault, you nosy bastard!” He scowled and smacked Sherlock’s hands away. “Don’t come into this house ever again!”

“By George! Please forgive my friend, his curiosity knows no bounds.” John rushed over to inspect his hands. “I’m a doctor, I should be able to decipher if it’s serious or not.”

Francis smacked his hands away as well. “Don’t you bother either. Just get out! This has been one hell of a night.”

“But sir, your injury—”

“—Will be fine, thank you very much, Dr. Watson, but I’m no idiot. I know what to do to take care of burns. I have ice and ointment for it and some bandages I’ll have my wife fetch. Please just leave.”

“Our apologies.” said John, glancing at Sherlock questionably for a moment before the couple.

Grace frowned. “I will take care of my husband. Thank you for coming tonight, but I don’t think you should stay any longer. We will contact the Yard soon about what’s happened with Blanche and see to her funeral preparation. Good evening, gentlemen. I will show you out.”

There was a smug giddiness that welled up inside of him that he could not express until he was outside. After once more making his (not so sincere) apology, Sherlock led John out to the sidewalk, where they glanced around for a hansom cab. It was getting so dark that the street lights were turning on and it was still so early. John didn’t appear to be in the least amused, but of course with the indication of the look in his eyes, he trusted Sherlock’s antics more than he did the atmosphere in that home.

Sherlock turned to John with a smile so wide it was almost terrifying.

“Watson! It’s brilliant! Just brilliant!”

“What is? What the devil are you going on about?”

“That, this—”

“Slow down, Holmes, I can’t keep up—”

“—Francis Beaumont is our murderer!”

John furrowed his brows. “Come again? How do you know?”

“Good lord, how did you not see it? It was right there in front of your eyes!” exclaimed Sherlock. 

“I _know_ , I see but I do not observe.” John rubbed his temples. 

Down the road, a hansom cab was coming. It stopped a few rows of homes down to let a young woman out. To catch the driver’s attention, Sherlock raised a hand to signify he and John needed a ride. The cabbie returned the gesture and rode over to where Sherlock and John stood. Once settled, Sherlock opened the door, the detective and his doctor entering inside, shutting the door behind them. John knocked against the roof of the hansom with his walking stick to once more catch the attention of the drive upon sitting down opposite his friend.

“221B Baker Street, please.” instructed John to the driver. 

“Watson, it’s incredible. It’s genius. I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Holmes, you’re not making any sense at all. How can he be the killer when you said yourself the killer was supposed to be a doctor, a surgeon no less? Mr. Beaumont is a banker working at the Bank of England.”

Sherlock smirked. “Simple. If you looked closely, you would have seen our friend here was in fact a doctor and surgeon before his current profession.”

“How could you tell that?”

“His hands. The first sign was that they were immaculate. More immaculate than his wife’s own hands, a common practice of the medical field to avoid contamination and habits of good hygiene. The way he held his cigar earlier was indelicate, much like that of new smoker. He didn’t always smoke, but he currently does, because in his old profession as a medical professional, he was so used to holding something in his hand— like a pen for writing notes or a scalpel. I also reviewed the measurements of his hands and took note of the height width and compared them to that of the marks on Thomas Richard’s neck when he was found dead from strangulation. They fit. Then the burning of his hand, which was just to prove my point. You rushed to his aid. Any common man would have taken up the offer of help from a doctor to ensure the injury would be fine, but Mr. Beaumont said that he knew how to take care of burns, almost as if he’d done so before many times. He was very confident about it too. As if he knew more than you.”

John was silent for a moment, processing the information bit by bit. He slowly nodded with gradual understanding.

“Yes, yes, he did say that, didn’t he?”

“Indeed he did.”

“When I explained the circumstances of Miss Beaumont’s death, his performance was a bit overdone. There was a single flaw that no one else would have drawn out.”

“That being?”

“How he immediately jumped to suicide than murder. He didn’t even take it into account.” He shrugged.

“Anyone would have done that.” said John, flatly.

“Perhaps, but he was adamant on explaining how he knew her best, that she wasn’t like that at all. Over compensation on his part to prove a point that he was close with her when in fact he wasn’t at all. He told you the story of how they grew up and parted ways as adults, which means she wasn’t relatively close to him at all. There could be a number of reasons for their distance, but mainly, I conclude, was that he hated her for his own reasons. The father may have played favorites or she may have done something he didn’t like. But the one very obvious fact was that she never once mentioned him to either of us. You’re probably thinking, ‘oh but Holmes, we barely knew her’ and you’re right. But how could she possibly trust us over her own brother when alive? How could she not stay with him instead during one of the worst times for her?”

John was in utter awe, as always, taken aback and also annoyed by his friend’s natural brilliance. “Even if this is all true, what proof would we have?”

Sherlock hummed at this, fishing out the vial of the dried, red substance he found in the restroom. He held it up to John who once more looked terribly bewildered.

“I imagine it could be blood. I happened to notice it in the wash closet.”

John studied the vial for a moment and blinked, all before laughing and shaking his head in disbelief as the two rode down Skinner Street.

“You utter bastard. You should have just said that in the beginning.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I know I haven’t been super active on here. I’ve been so busy, as you all know, but chapter five is finally here! And YES, I will be working on The Sentimental Detective again soon enough (check it out if you haven’t already!). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and please leave a comment, I do appreciate any feedback!

The next morning arrived like a gale of wind, passing through London like the chill of a ghost. No one else likely noticed it the way Sherlock did at dawn. It had been over twenty-four hours since Blanche Beaumont’s life was robbed from her. It had been at least twenty-four hours since she had been found. At this point, he had toyed with the idea of visiting the shop as he paced the center of the sitting room to and fro, his purple dressing gown fluttering about behind him with his swift movements. 

After dropping John off the evening prior, Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street with the intention of spending all the hours of night examining the sample of blood he scraped from Francis' restroom wall and brainstorming his next move. Of course, it wasn’t an easy task to make evident his crime, but it was much simpler to find out for himself. Mrs. Hudson had made him tea numerous times to aid in his discoveries to help him focus and work more diligently. Lord knew the poor landlady was torn that the poor dear she lent her nightdress to was suddenly gone. She had to admit that in the short time she knew her, she did enjoy their time together. And she knew that Sherlock did too, even if he didn’t care to admit it, like most things. But the elders knew. They knew when their youth were troubled, perplexed, and outright lost, still finding themselves in places where others could not reach. 

“Have you made your decision, dearie?” inquired Mrs. Hudson, placing down the newspaper on the coffee table. 

Sherlock didn’t even pay the elder woman any mind, his thoughts racing. His hair was disheveled and his most recent cup of tea was untouched after an hour. He only continued pacing on and on, hands behind his back. There was an expression of concentration that could not be altered in the slightest. Perhaps, he could hear Mrs. Hudson, but she was just a distant echo in the depths of his mind. However, before she could open her mouth to speak again, Sherlock slammed down the The Hanged Man tarot card onto the coffee table, startling the woman greatly.

“Good heavens, Sherlock! What in—”

“I have to go back, it only makes sense if I go back. Miss Beaumont went there again and again not because she was concerned for her shop, but what was inside of it.” He deduced quickly, placing his hands together, the tip tops of his fingertips pressed under his chin. “She was protecting something important. An item, a document even, of great significance.”

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“He couldn’t have possibly murdered her unless it was for a good reason. He set it up to make it seem as though she were committing these crimes, then make it appear her apparent suicide was due to her inability to cope with her madness and her sins. And how interesting he chose a method of murder that is most common in the Southern, more conservative states of America. A lynching. However, I am still figuring out if there was only him or if he had help. He wasn't clever enough to do it alone, I imagine he had to have some form of support. Why? He needed to find what she had. He needed her out of the way first. Perhaps he knew she could put up a fight.”

“I simply don’t understand you, Sherlock. You think and speak so quickly, sometimes I wonder if it’s another language. I say go and do whatever is necessary. You’re a smart boy and you’ll figure it out, bring justice to that poor girl’s name.” encouraged Mrs. Hudson, sighing as she glanced down at the card curiously.

The detective removed his hands from their previous position and slipped off his dressing gown, quickly approaching his coat rack and unhooking his coat before slotting both arms into it.

“Any former known abolitionist would tell you this is a crime of radical prejudice against the negro people. This is more a statement than simply killing her just to kill her. Of course, it was personal when he murdered her,” commented Sherlock, buttoning his coat, “but if it were a true crime of passion the murder would be more direct, more intimate— much like the cutting and removal of the heart with Miss Baxter, a shot through the heart, decapitation, poison, a fatal beating even. Yet he had help. He didn’t do it himself because he wanted to humiliate her. As far as I know, it’s beyond passion. It’s madness. The Hanged Man, it was a message to me. All morning I searched my private library on any occult books that were in my possession. As it only is useful for my profession if I’m dealing with an occultist or the situation involves it, I didn’t have very many. The tarot is a unique art of guidance that Miss Beaumont involved herself with. Whether it was left by her accidentally or purposely, or if her murderer, who I do believe is the brother, who may have left it there as a message that I do intend to disregard. You may be wondering, what is the message that I decoded from the picture of the man hanging by the rope around his ankle? It was a common punishment ages ago in Italy for traitors. But it’s meaning is deeper than that of its artwork. It is a card of ultimate surrender. Because it was facing my direction upright, it can only infer that our culprit finds my involvement most inconvenient. Well, how fortunate for him that he shall suffer my involvement no further once I turn him in to the police.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at a loss for words but only briefly smiled as if she understood any of what the Englishman just spouted on about.

“You’re the grandest, Mrs. Hudson, always an invaluable listener.” smiled Sherlock, looking forward to finishing the case, placing his top hat on. He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before heading out of the flat.

Once Sherlock was gone and out of earshot, the landlady sighed and shook her head.

“I will never understand that boy.”

  
  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


Arriving back to Oxford Street seemed like stepping into another dimension. It was as though Blanche’s death forever sullied the concentration he held when investigating. It was as though her spirit coiled around his thoughts, guiding him along to success, like a supernatural influence. Of course, the consulting detective did not believe in such a nonsensical thing, but he was impressed with how well he was flowing after her death. Not to say with her alive was a halt on his success, but it was almost like she was there, all-knowing as an omnipresent force of great deduction. It was as though her essence was channeling her energy through him to plow through thoughts and discoveries faster than usual. After all, this was an unusual case to begin with, and had she been dead from the start, he would have taken longer to come to a conclusion. Perhaps what bound them was their familiarity in working with the power of deduction. Sherlock was a professional deduction specialist, Blanche was a natural who mediated her observations through tarot cards. She was awfully brilliant beyond her misdirecting title of a psychic, so it was no wonder that the detective could appreciate her more than her imbecile brother. For a man who did not flatter many, he found her quite admirable.

Sherlock fished out a small, silver key he found the other day in Blanche’s pocket when she was found. Of course, it was tampering with the evidence, but it wasn’t as if the Englishman cared what Scotland Yard had to say about it. He was the one who did their nitty-gritty dirty work like a pet dog and they were the ones who fed him the bone in secret whilst receiving the public praise. 

With the key in hand, he slotted it inside the keyhole, twisting it round so the door would unlock. When he heard the little ‘click’ was when he pulled it out, dipping it back into his coat pocket, and opened the shop’s door to enter inside. 

Upon entry, there seemed to be a morose atmosphere he couldn’t help but notice. Even when flicking on the lamp, with the bit of daylight coming through the windows, it did not clear out the dullness that plagued this cryptic place. He proceeded to walk though, the sight and memory of her hanging at the center of the room still sitting in the back of his mind. Sherlock now and then tried to brush it aside, but the memory would not leave him, like a phantom of misery hanging over his head. His eyes searched around, observing anything that could be of value. All there was sat at one end on his right, a room with a table with a crimson tablecloth and a few candles that were burned half-way, with wax stuck to its silver holder, all by the window with curtains mostly blocking the view of sunlight.. Then at his left, another table, with a small kitchen for when Blanche would eat before and after work, or have tea with her customers. 

It was interesting, whilst the atmosphere felt cold, the air itself carried the scent of jasmine and patchouli. It was faintest at first, yet as he continued on through the long hall in the back, there was a small room with an altar devoted to the goddess Aset— or Isis, if one was familiar with her alternative name. There she sat on the long and wide wooden desk, her idol perched in the center, wrapped with a white cloth, she stood tall among many candles and two incense burners, with a dish of dates and a chalice of red wine before her. How he could see Blanche sitting here in her nights, praying to the goddess for protection and solace and in her mornings, bowing to her glory. It was almost incredible how much it was like her energy still lingered here. Almost like a ghost, wandering the shop with her memories on display. It almost sent a shiver down his spine. Sherlock was never the one for worship— he did not follow religion, nor did he believe there was a god at all. The ideology of a god, goddess, and/or creation story may have been a comfort to Abrahamic and Pagan or Polytheistic practitioners alike, but Sherlock was a man of fact. He did not like holding his beliefs out to mere faith. He preferred results, evidence that could bring it there as well. A man of science, that was all he could ever truly believe in. 

Sherlock didn’t believe there was anything of real value that could be taken from her place of worship— the idol he did not wager to be very expensive, no doubt a replica of a real antique that could be found in the British Museum. The gold in its craft was definitely false. Fool’s Gold at that.

The detective then spun around, noticing the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. With further to explore, Sherlock continued by walking over and ascending the stairs. With every creak, he neared closer and closer, noticing with every step upward two doors on opposite ends. One was left ajar, and seeing a mirror peeking in through the crack, he already knew it was a wash closet. The other room was closed. In the center of both was a hallway window that had a perfect view of the city upon the Thames. 

Once he arrived at the top, he proceeded onwards and approached the door. With the twist of the bronze knob, he was introduced to Blanche Beaumont’s bedroom. It wasn’t anything extravagant, as expected on her salary, but it was cozy and simple. A single bed against the wall with blue quilt and plain white sheets, a handcrafted pentacle made of flowers, herbs, and sticks hung above it for protection. Her nightstand held herbs, flowers, and an amethyst crystal. Across the room was a closet, which kept her clothes and corsets in order, and then a bookshelf, a library filled with books on witchcraft, occult, and Egyptian mythology at a glance. Beside it was a small desk with a lamp, a couple candles and matches, and four books with some papers of scribbled notes. Sherlock admired that she was a devoted bookworm, but did not approve of the tastes. Though Egyptian mythology was an interesting read now and again. 

As he searched the small room for anything of value, his eyes drifted to the bookshelf again. He scanned the collection she had, each and every title until she came to a title-less book. It was short, black, and thinner than the rest. It blended in so perfectly that his eyes may have passed it several times. He reached up and slipped it out of its place, carefully opening it to see many pages of writing— definitely a journal of some kind. He didn’t bother to read what was in the past, but the most recently filled out pages towards the end of the book. It read, 

_My brother has been horrible to me again. He can truly be so unkind. He does not feel empathy at the tears I shed and does not wish for me to be in his life. He believes that I was the very thing that should’ve never walked the Earth. He does not understand how our father could have loved a negro woman. How he could love me. He’s said it so often that I wonder if Papa really did love me? Love Mama? He thinks Mama and I are children of the devil when neither she nor I believed in such a Christian concept. Perhaps Papa raised him and I as Catholics, but never was he like Francis, so engrossed in Heaven and Hell, sin, and prayer. He was a man of faith who sought my mother for direction in his life. I cannot answer how exactly they loved each other, but all I am is a daughter. What could I have done or what could I be to earn his distaste?_

_Poor Mama! May her name never be scorned, I’ll always admire her! She was a strong woman who birthed me into a world of chaos. She taught me all I know. And Papa loved me enough to leave me his inheritance in his will. I do believe my greedy brother is after it. It is the one thing I have of his and I will never relinquish. Papa left it for me because he knew I wanted to pursue my dreams helping others guide their lives. He didn’t care if it was through divination. Why would my brother want it so badly? He has more money than I ever will. He has a family he will never have to dream of. I keep telling him that I will not reveal the location of it. He will just have to burn the world looking for it. If I perish before my dreams are at its heights, I wish for the money to be given away for charitable purposes, so at least then I can die knowing that it is in better hands, helping those who need it most._

_May the gods be at my side and may they keep it out of Francis’ hands forever. I know Mama is with Papa in the afterlife, waiting for me to join them. How I miss them so. But for now I must do what I can. I must do what I can for my clients. Like Olivia, who angrily accused me of doing vulgar things with her fiancé last night. I would never! He and I only met twice! The cruelty in her voice shook me, for I could only remember her kindness up until this point. It ruined my night. Of course, I forgiven her, and I didn’t bother to chase her on her way out. But she turned up dead in my alleyway and now the police are blaming me for it. I know this can’t be right! I was inside the entire night working! What demon could have stolen her life away? May the gods be merciful to her soul and may her heart be safe from Ammut._

_I must now leave my diary behind and go forward. I don’t know if I’ll return soon and things will be what they used to be. I was released on bail, after all. This morning in the hansom I read of the wonderfully clever and handsome detective Sherlock Holmes, who I remember reading about a few times before in The Strand. Oh, if I weren’t such a mess right now, I would certainly find out if he fancied psychics. The cards are urging me to take this opportunity. Perhaps he will have some guidance for me as I journey to 221B Baker Street. I am not a murderer nor ever have been, but I am scared and don’t want to die a murderer’s death. These tears shall not be dried until justice prevails._

_May justice prevail! May Ma’at be at my side until the very end._

Sherlock stared into the journal for a moment or two, letting his thoughts linger on this newfound information. He immediately tucked the journal into his left coat pocket, then turned, contemplating for a moment on where the inheritance paperwork could have been tucked away. First, his eyes lingered upon the nightstand, then the mattress, then beneath the bed. He sunk down to his knees and peeked below, noticing a dark brown wooden box with a bronze latch and a lock. With a light click of his tongue, he drummed his fingers against the wooden floor, his curious gaze falling to it as he listened to the rhythmic sound.

He then stopped drumming his fingers for a moment, his hand swiping over the spot his hand laid upon, the gentle creaking making him perk up as he leaned against the floorboard. An idea struck and he scoured the floor, searching for the loosest floorboard he could find. It was when he arrived at the closet that he found a loose floorboard. He tapped it a few times before gripping both sides and pulled upward, introducing him to a small stash of keys stored away in a smaller box than the one beneath his bed. 

Upon it lay a thin layer of dust he brushed away, a sign of it being well hidden and untouched. He removed the lid and fished out the keys, each one unique in size and shape. After he deduced the size and shape of the keyhole as well as the keys, he selected a long, bronze key from the collection, curiously wondering in the back of his mind if the rest were for other locks or simply to throw him off. It was not surprising when he slotted it into the lock and twisted it round that the lock clicked in his favor. He opened the box and what was revealed was the very thing Blanche had written of.

The legal document and some other paperwork of her father’s inheritance in her name, her birth registration, a small booklet of photographs of her parents, and a short stack of paperwork of the legal troubles in obtaining the inheritance. As Sherlock read through it, it seemed to be that the courts did find the documents ‘authentic enough’, and would need another ‘next of kin’ to decide where it would go. It was all written in French, but it was very obvious that it was an authentic legal document— signed by not only Blanche’s father, but a French lawyer as well. It was likely British law did not like the thought of a Black woman with wealth to her name. Sherlock was in no way shocked. British Law was a corrupt system. 

As he continued to file through the box, his nose twitched as it caught a waft burning in the air. With a sniff, he faintly grasped the scent of smoke. The next sniff, it became stronger, and Sherlock realized that the building was on fire. His eyes widened and he shut the box, clutching it to his chest safely as he glanced around. As he stepped outside of the bedroom, he noticed the stairs engulfed with flames. Sherlock couldn’t take a moment to think. He sprinted down the short hall to the center window, fighting to open it, wondering if it were ever opened in the first place. 

After a minute of coughing and wheezing as the fire neared and the smoke surrounded him, he was able to wrench open the window. Below was the alleyway, the same alleyway Olivia Baxter’s body was found in. There was no soft landing at the bottom. The detective cautiously glanced behind him at the fire becoming mightier, brushing away the thought of this being his final moment. His frantic, blue eyes searched for something useful to get him out safely. 

“Christ...” Sherlock muttered, looking out of the window, careful enough not to fall out, hoping there was someone of importance passing so that he could get out. As far as he could see on the other side of the street behind a large building, there were people pouring out from a church service. He decided to try his luck and hope that they heard him from here in the house. He was lucky this was a relatively quiet street in a way, so it was likely he could be heard. It was also a misfortune however considering the lack of busyness meant less people around at this time of morning.

“FIRE! GET THE FIRE BRIGADE! THERE IS A FIRE IN THIS HOME! HELP!” He cried out as loudly as possible. “FIRE!”

After a few moments passed, around the corner, two gentlemen raced down the street, searching for the source of the voice. It was usually Sherlock to go and ask for help, but this was a circumstance of life or death, and a grave reminder that he was as mortal as anyone else. It humbled him only slightly, but he still managed to get this far. Though he wondered how Francis wasn’t able to find what he wanted. Or perhaps he was ready to come to the courts with a forged document, hoping he would receive the inheritance. Either way, the evidence was here, which was curious as to why Francis never tried to get to it before the police did. It was possible he believed that the police was incompetent, but he knew Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective was not. It was odd, but also made sense. It was a lure to kill two birds with one stone. And he _almost_ had him there. 

“HELP!” cried Sherlock, tossing his top hat out, hoping it would get the attention of the men.

As the hat was thrown out the window, the wind carried it to the sidewalk. He waited impatiently for the next minute, coughing and gasping for air, sweat collecting at the back of his neck from the heat and the stress. Thankfully, one of the lesser of the incompetent men came racing towards Sherlock who had thrown the hat to catch their attention.

“I need a ladder!” 

“We don’t have the time! Just jump! I’ll catch you!” The man screamed back to Sherlock, much to his distaste. But did he really have any other choice? He would be burning to a crisp if he stayed, dying also from breathing in the carbon monoxide. There was a parcial chance he would live if he didn’t land in his arms, but very likely he would break something. But it was most likely he would die. But someone was there and he could only hope gravity was on his side for now. The second man now ran over to the one waiting for Sherlock to jump, with his arms stretched out wide.

“Don’t worry, mate, I’ll break your fall! Just jump!” He called out to Sherlock.

Sherlock tossed the box out first, earning a confused look. The first man that came caught it and set it down beside him. The second one encouraged Sherlock to jump, gesturing for him to hurry. 

Sherlock took a literal leap of faith, jumping out of the window with only missing the fire by a hair. 

In the moments he was falling, there was one inescapable thought that entered his mind. James Moriarty. The notorious criminal was a thief of concentration, plaguing his mind right as he had taken a chance against life. It was interesting, really, that he would think of him so suddenly and so naturally, as one would think of their spouse. But the feelings that assisted the thoughts were fear. Not fear of Jim, but fear of dying. He didn’t want to die. Not because he was afraid of death, but he was afraid of death claiming him before accomplishing his task. This game of theirs was sacred and Sherlock wished to see it through to the end. There was an odd satisfaction in having Jim be the final face he gazed upon. He wanted Jim to be there to see him be victorious, because he was only then boring when he lost— when the game was incomplete. These cryptic thoughts circulated his mind; of Jim, of death, of life after death, and the pair of them in death together. Everything else was a blur. It was the strangest comfort to think of him, even in this delirious state, like an endless reel of Jim for his own viewing pleasure. 

Naturally, however, it also had to come to an end.

“Holmes… Holmes, wake up. Are you there?” 

Sherlock could hear the voice and he mentally noted that it was John calling out to him. He couldn’t see where at first, but it took him a moment or two as black turned to white and his blurry vision started to morph into an image of an Englishman with blond hair and a curled mustache. The consulting detective smiled weakly as he blinked, the sight of him becoming clearer and clearer by the moment.

“...Greetings, Watson…”

John looked so pleased to see Sherlock rouse back to consciousness, but also was quickly possessed by anger in the next moment. Very typical of his colleague and friend, the doctor was like a scolding mother to a reckless child. Sherlock found it both amusing and ironic, considering he was no better with danger when it came to him and Mary. 

“Holmes, what the bloody hell were you thinking going alone there?!” frowned John. “You could have died!”

“Relax… Watson, relax…” he mumbled, slowly rising up from his lain position to see he was in the hospital, lying in a hospital bed. “I’m alive now, no use in badgering me about the could haves.” 

He held his head for a moment, a small yet dull ache was forming in his head. He fought to remember what had happened between opening the window and jumping out. Slowly, the memories were flooding back to him, but at a painstakingly slow rate. 

John was about to retort with an argument, but instead noticed that Sherlock was in pain.

“What’s the matter?”

Sherlock blinked for a moment, looking up to John, then around the room filled with medical equipment and blankets for the patient. It was a fairly small room, but he thankfully had one alone. However, his main concern was on the very reason he went to Blanche’s home.

“The box! Where is the box? Where’s my coat?” He glanced around in a panic.

“Relax yourself, Holmes! It’s here, in the closet.” chided John, getting up from his stool. “You’re lucky those two gentleman from that Protestant church on Regent Street were able to get you. You need to be more careful.”

Sherlock said nothing but observed John opening the closet and retrieving the box and coat. Sherlock gripped his blanket as he watched John carry them back to bed. 

“This was all they had. I asked what was in the box but they couldn’t confirm it. Quite nice of them to respect your privacy.” He explained. “All I know is that they carried you to the nearest hospital. The Fire Brigade was able to come and put the fire out, but the majority of her things were gone. Some things were recoverable and taken in for cleaning up and evidence, but I doubt it’ll be much to go off of.”

“Francis Beaumont. Definitely Francis Beaumont.” said Sherlock simply, holding his head in agony as he opened and searched the box. A sigh of relief passed from his lips as he recounted everything and noted that everything was there. He then dipped his hand into his left pocket, fishing out the journal Blanche kept up to this point. He was lucky he wasn’t pickpocketed or anything when at his most vulnerable. This was evidence that could bring Blanche justice once and for all.

“How do you know? Are you sure?” inquired John, wide-eyed.

Sherlock coughed and laid back down, looking to John as he covered his mouth.

“Of course. He knows I’m on his trail. And he used fire of all substances to try and have me perish. Interestingly enough, it’s the same substance I used to burn him last night. There were other ways to try and kill me. He could’ve strangled me from behind, shot me, beat me with a pipe or hit me over the head with a shovel, pushed me out of the window, the list goes on and on… he wasn’t very creative. Just vengeful and panicked.” He explained, a soft groan leaving him as his headache worsened. 

“God, what a bastard. It was a lure!” cried John in realization. 

“Indeed.” 

“Should I take the diary and box to Scotland Yard for evidence?”

“Yes….” mumbled Sherlock, his eyes fluttering closed. “...send Inspector Lestrade my regards…”

“All right,” John got to his feet, “just stay here and rest. You’ll need to at least stay overnight anyhow so they can know you’re okay after breathing in those fumes. I can bring your things tomorrow morning if you’d like.”

Sherlock did not answer as he was already fast asleep, a soft snore leaving his lips now and then. John couldn’t help but smile, recognizing his friend’s hard work in this case. He wouldn’t know anyone better to solve it. And now that they were close to finishing, he decided to do his part and let Sherlock have his rest— even if the detective wanted to do nothing more than to continue on with the case.

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


A few days had come and gone in a blink of an eye. Sherlock was discharged from the hospital and back on the case. Scotland Yard still did not have a warrant for Francis’ arrest, but were still investigating him closely. Sherlock was encouraged to accept Grace’s invitation to Blanche’s funeral. She, unlike her husband, was a forgiving spirit. She had felt it was at least fair to invite him and his friend to see her once more before she was buried. 

Sherlock wasn’t fond of funerals. All the crying and the whimpering and the morose and deceitful talk of those who passed becoming angels in Heaven or something was maddening. It was distasteful and more so, he felt as though it was an excuse for people to take pity on another. Once someone was gone, they had no care in the world of where their body remained. It may have been respectful to others dress them up for the eyes of those who would miss them, but Sherlock found it utterly ridiculous. Bodies were not meant to be admired after death. They were meant to decay and perish with the rest of all living things. It was a selfish act. Either bury them or better yet, burn them. Why would one need a grave marker to remember someone close to them? Once again, a selfish idea Sherlock could not wrap his mind around. Then again, when did he truly feel empathy?

The Englishman went to the funeral anyway that morning. As expected, the atmosphere was disappointing. It was as cold and uneasy as it was outside snowing. He was lucky he and John didn’t have an accident on the way there— hansoms were difficult to maneuver in the snow and ice. The church was, of course, very Catholic with its saints and stained glass stories, and with its distinguishable, large crucifix that hung upon the center of the wall. Things both Sherlock and Blanche could both scoff at. John had to remind him that not only was this for the case, but out of respect, they should have gone. Whilst Sherlock knew Blanche’s spirit would not be in any way offended if he hadn’t shown, he went because John continuously reminded him again and again that seeing her at peace would be healing for his mind or something, but Sherlock disagreed. Though he was in no mood to argue.

He approached the casket with some hesitation— seeing Blanche deceased was something he was still growing accustomed to. When he found her, she did not look at peace at all. Quite the opposite. But upon sight of her, she looked immaculate. The finest, bluest dress Grace could find. Her curls were long and pouring down her white pillow. Her lips and cheeks were tainted red with rouge to liven her complexion, which the rest of seemed pale. The only difference that stood out to him were the two sovereigns that were placed over her eyes to keep them shut. He had to admit, she looked beautiful. The undertaker did a wonderful job. But she did not look like herself. And obviously, that was expected of the dead. But it seemed unnatural. She didn’t seem like she was sleeping, how most dead people looked. She looked dead, but at peace. 

“They really turned her into a different person.” commented Sherlock with a sigh.

“She does look different. I’ve never seen her with rouge on.” replied John.

“It’s dishonoring. All of it.” frowned Sherlock, looking back to the still corpse.

“I’m going to find a seat. I’ll let you have a moment, if you er, need one.” smiled John sadly, letting his friend stay there alone with Blanche.

Sherlock wanted to say that he didn’t need a moment, that he would gladly join John in finding a seat. But the words couldn’t leave his mouth. He was practically nailed to the spot he stood in, letting his fingers run over the pillow within the casket. For a moment, he let himself stand there in silence, a hint of regret tugging at him for not protecting her sooner. He knew if this is what true loss felt like, he could only imagine what it felt like to lose John. He cringed at the thought— it was something he did not care to entertain, as it was in a way, disturbing. Sure, he lost someone once before, a childhood friend named Victor Trevor, who was found dead in a well by his old home. Sherlock could never figure out his murder and it was one that hit close to him whenever he thought about losing a friend. But this death seemed all too sudden. It left one empty, not just in grief.

He glanced down at her, his grim expression softening into that of a smile. He did not wish to be so gloomy when she was anything but that. And slowly, he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as a way to greet her goodbye. She was cold to the touch—but deep down somewhere, he hoped the affection warmed her. He knew she didn’t receive it much after her father passed. But kissing her forehead… It was one of the many ways he grew up greeting women hello and goodbye in the family— whether they came or left his home after a visit or if they passed away. That was how his mother raised him, after all, she was an advocate for women’s rights, so one knew he would be a gentleman around them, or tried to be, anyhow. She admired Mary Wollstonecraft to bits and pieces and was always outspoken when it came to women and women in education. There was a point in his life he lost his way and could not accept defeat by a woman after Irene Adler entered his life. But slowly and surely did he remember the many women before him so clever, strong, and brilliant, and how Blanche reminded him of them. He refused to ignore the gift she had. She may have considered it clairvoyance, but Sherlock called it what it was: the gift of deduction.

“Thank you…” whispered Sherlock. “...for giving me hope. Worry no more, I have it from here. You can rest easy now.”

There were whispers among the people in attendance, but Sherlock paid them no mind. Slowly, he slipped out a small, black velvet bag, and tucked it away beneath her pillow. Within were all of her tarot cards. Each and every one of them she’s used for divination. They would keep her company in the following years to come. Sherlock stood up straight and gazed over her face once more, almost sure that there was a smile that touched her lips. It was vague, but it was possibly there. He then, at long last, departed from her and went to find John.

The funeral was just like any other. Grim, filled with funerary hymns, and sat through with no empathy for the attendees. He could see Francis in the front pew pretending to weep, but he knew they were as real as Heaven itself. His wife comforted him and the more Sherlock had to watch it, the more it churned his stomach. After they closed the casket and brought it to the cemetery, Sherlock stood there, holding onto his white rose as people began to disperse. They were mostly past clients of hers rather than family members— any family that came were her brother, his wife, and a few of her family members who may have known her. 

“Holmes, there he is over there. What would you like to do?” inquired John in a whisper.

Sherlock had returned back to reality when John called out his name. He blinked, processing what he said for a moment. He tossed the rose down onto the casket and glanced over to him before looking at Francis.

“Pay my respects.” said Sherlock calmly. It was all he said and nothing more.

John followed Sherlock as he ambled over to Francis, his wife, and the undertaker by a mausoleum several feet away. As they approached the couple, the undertaker excused himself to go tend to other responsibilities.

“So glad you could make it, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t expect your arrival.” smiled Francis.

“Why not?” smiled Sherlock in return. “I was invited, after all. And here I thought you were preoccupied by a _fiery_ rage. How’s the hand by the way? Oh, I won’t take up your time, I do want to give you my deepest sympathies.”

Francis laughed bitterly, tilting his top hat up a bit, puffing out his chest confidently to act as though he weren’t affected by his words.

“Oh you know what they say, my good sir. I have to let my problems just _burn_ away. I’m sure they will soon enough. I just need the right match, don’t I? By the way, hand is well and my heart is full of gratitude.”

Sherlock raised a brow and was going to retort when Grace interjected. 

“We’re having a small luncheon at the Italian place up the street. You and Dr. Watson are more than welcome to join.” She smiled. “It’ll be us and some family and friends of Blanche. We will be all talking and bonding over memories we have of her.”

“Of course, we would be delighted to come.” John accepted politely. 

“See you there.” hummed Sherlock, gesturing for John to follow him along to their hansoms, who would be driving them to the restaurant for the repass.

As the two of them were riding the hansom, Sherlock observed the ride Grace took with her sister, whilst Francis took a separate one this time. Sherlock tapped John to gain his attention at once before he missed what was happening before his eyes. Once they were going the direction of Grace to the restaurant, Sherlock banged the ceiling of the hansom, making the driver halt where he was headed.

“Follow that hansom going down Romford Road!” He demanded, causing an uproar of complaints from the driver.

“And I wonder where the bloody hell he’s going!” scowled John, watching as Francis took off in another direction. 

“Home, to complete the final step in his plans in getting the false paperwork together so he can have her inheritance.” frowned Sherlock as he sat back, taking off his top hat. “Did you bring your gun?”

“You know I always do.” replied John, slipping out the firearm with ease. 

Sherlock sighed. 

“Good. Give it to me. I have an idea.” 

It had been at least around forty minutes before they reached Francis’ home. They were dropped off by the hansom cab, where they complained at some more for the change in directions. John paid their expensive fare and followed suit behind Sherlock as they approached the door. Sherlock dug into his pocket and found the collection of keys he brought from Blanche’s home before, looking to them for a moment, then the lock, before picking out a silver key when slotting it inside the lock, twisting and turning with ease until the door unlocked.

“In a world of locked rooms, the man with a key is king.” mumbled Sherlock, as though the words were planted in his mind by James Moriarty himself— he uttered them as if they were his own.

“What?”

“Hm? Nothing.”

John then looked to Sherlock in deep bewilderment. 

“And where the bloody hell did you get those and how did you know which one unlocked the door?” 

“Not important.” He explained, taking the keys back out of the lock and stuffing them into his pocket again. “Come along.”

John only rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock inside as the two of them kept tabs on Francis, who could be heard in the sitting room, grumbling away about Sherlock being an utter nuisance. Slowly, Sherlock turned the corner where Francis was— skimming through some papers that were hidden between a couple of books from the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. John glanced at him warily, but Sherlock only sent a nod his direction. He pulled out John’s revolver slowly, gently cocking it whilst aiming it at the guilty Englishman. 

“I think you should put that down, Mr. Beaumont. Forgery is a crime. Then again, you’ve been doing worse, haven’t you?” Sherlock’s finger rested against the trigger.

Francis only grinned, slowly turning around with his hands over his head. He let the documents fall to the floor.

“I imagine you have evidence, Mr. Holmes?” He chuckled. “Here you are, after all, breaking into my home and accusing me of atrocious things.”

“Precisely.” retorted Sherlock. “I know it was you who did it.”

“Then do tell me, how was it done?”

John slowly walked through to gather the papers scattered across the floor. He knelt down in front of Francis and one by one, neatly picked each one up and organized them, reading through them as well to make sure they were the documents that he intended to take to the courts so they believed the inheritance was his. Sherlock’s eyes were on John only a moment, but the second his attention was briefly taken away from his target, Francis pulled out his own firearm, pointing it directly at John’s head.

Sherlock’s eyes now widened, now much more alert than he once was, now careful as to not put John in a position where he would eventually be killed. After all, this was just intimidation. If Sherlock did not make any sudden moves, the ex-army doctor would be safe. It was revolver against revolver now. 

“Be wise, detective, I don’t think your friend will survive a shot to the head.” threatened Francis. “So tell me, how was it done?”

Sherlock cautiously glanced down to John who, with a very slight nod, gave approval for Sherlock to speak. John trusted he was safe for now. This gave Sherlock time to stall him. 

“You gave it all the way the night we met without saying a word of your intentions. You assumed Blanche’s death was a suicide when there was no chance of that happening. With the way she was handled, it appears her death can be likened to that of a lynching. You were alone in her death, you had an accomplice. But the other murders you worked alone— and you did it well too. Everyone knows you’re a banker, but years ago you worked as a surgeon. Your hands showed that when I examined them that night. You tried to make the murders look sloppy, but it was simple to catch on quickly enough that I wasn't dealing with just an ameteur to make it seem like it was Blanche’s doing. You bailed her out to make it seem like you and her were close. But had she been close with you, she would have been staying with you those nights that were too dangerous for her to be at home. You figured anyone would have wanted her head. She was a Negro woman, an unorthodox spiritualist, living in England, a country who may have outlawed slavery years ago but where prejudice thrives. It was your only chance. It was driving you mad. All those years of your father playing favorites. You knew he loved her more. He left the inheritance in her name. Not yours. You couldn’t find the real document, so you forged a counterfeit one. And tried to burn me with the rest of her things because even if the British did not believe her, the French would. And you didn’t want to chance that, did you? You knew you were in the deepest of shit the moment you saw me at the funeral. Well, you might as well come clean. After all, you’ve made quite the mess for, what? Some money you could’ve made as a surgeon?”

Francis smiled wryly, finger resting against the trigger to John’s head. “I’m intrigued that you found all of that out after examining my hands.”

“Thank you, it’s a gift. But I have to admit, I suspected you long before that.” explained Sherlock.

“Really now?” 

“Yes. The morning I saw Blanche beaten to a pulp. She claimed that she was attacked by a radical Christian, but she didn’t have the courage to say his name.”

“And how can you prove that?” inquired Francis with a hum.

Sherlock raised a finger, ever so slowly walking over to the bookshelf. He reached over and pulled out a Bible he had sitting by the section he reached for the papers. Opening the book with ease, he landed right on the page bookmarked with an envelope noted ‘Francis’. The detective’s finger still remained on his own trigger as he lifted the book up with his other hand to read,

“Exodus 22:18. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” He stated, setting his Bible down on the shelf. “And… what’s this? The ‘official’ document?”

“Keep your hands off of it if you wish for your friend to live.” scowled the French-Englishman. 

“Funny, how we often get caught up in our greed, we are careless of where we hide our sins.” said Sherlock, tossing the document towards the fireplace. “Well, go fetch it then, I suppose.”

Francis cursed beneath his breath and went after the document like a dog fetching a branch. It was truly pathetic, Sherlock thought, how people went mad over the materialistic things of this world. Sherlock despised those kinds of people, because not only were they predictable and boring, but because in the end, they proved to be a waste of time. As he was busy retrieving the document Sherlock threw, John immediately pounced on him and subdued him to the ground, his hands pinned behind his back. 

The revolver went off and a bullet hit the wall, but the gun slid across the floor whilst he was down. John had to sit on him to keep him down and still, the struggling eventually coming to an end when he was in no position to move. Sherlock picked it up and handed it to John, who in turn, placed it against Francis’ temple.

“Mr. Holmes, you have no business sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Don’t I? It is my business to know what people don’t know.” drawled Sherlock, picking up the envelope. 

“ _Please_ , you don’t even know who my _accomplice_ is!” hissed Francis.

“Sure, I do. She’s being taken to Scotland Yard as we speak. How embarrassing is it that it’ll be in front of all her guests.” He sighed, tossing the forged document into the flames of the fireplace. “Well, at least you’ll be joining her more discreetly.”

Francis let out a hideous scream of rage, one that Sherlock would never forget. 

It wasn’t very long before Scotland Yard had come to collect Francis and take him down to the station. The inspector was delighted that Sherlock solved the case and encouraged him to relax for now, knowing how hard he worked when Lestrade himself would be receiving all the praise and credit.

But Sherlock could not rest. He was in a state of unrest until he knew for sure that he would be seeing Jim again. John had invited him over to tea with him and Mary, but Sherlock declined, his intentions focused much on meditation for the rest of the afternoon and evening. 

Upon returning home, he brewed chamomile tea and sat in silence, gazing out of the window, watching London, buried in white, observing people go about their evening. As he raised his cup to his lips, he contemplated on the day that passed, and Blanche’s words when she spoke of Jim to him that night he received a reading from her. He wondered if this new objective of his, pursuing Jim, would be worth it. He knew what he felt when he was around, so was it also worth fighting against it any further? The Englishman took a long sip, his thoughts wrapped around the next time he’d see him, if he would ever see him again at all. 

Then again, if he were an old flame, Jim was sure to burn him thoroughly this time. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! It’s been a while since I’ve posted for this fic. I worked really hard on it so I do hope you enjoy. There will be more coming your way soon. Please give me feedback if you’re able!! I always enjoy hearing what the readers think. 
> 
> I used Mary Howitt’s The Spider and The Fly in this. I thought it would be fitting. Here is a link to the full poem if you’re interested in reading it! It was in my favorite childhood book, I highly recommend.
> 
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spider_and_the_Fly_(poem)

_The Daily Telegraph_ published the news regarding the Beaumont crimes. Francis Beaumont was sentenced be hung that afternoon for the murders of Olivia Baxter, Thomas Richards, Robert Chesterfield, and of course, Blanche Beaumont. John Watson was being interviewed by _The Strand_ regarding the case. Per the wishes of the dead, the British Law did something morally right for once, and contacted the French to verify the validity of the Beaumont inheritance. After its credentials were passed, it was indeed the truth that the money belonged to the late Blanche Beaumont, and would be donated to the less fortunate for charitable purposes. The little occult items that could be recovered in the shop, along with the items given to Scotland Yard were kept for evidence and research, to perhaps find a relative, even distant, who would appreciate her things.

Sherlock sat immobile in the center of the sitting room in front of the fireplace, finding some physical warmth in the burning flames before him. All he could do was stare at them and forget the winter cold that consumed him from the inside out, the snow outside just a reflection of his internal reel of thoughts. So much had happened within two days and all he desired was to isolate himself from the world. But that was how it was after every case, wasn’t it? Solve a crime, hibernate until the next. Yesterday now seemed like a distant memory. Blanche was in the forefront of his mind. He wondered, what would she say to him now? Now, as he sat alone, contemplating the most recent events and Jim. Jim especially, who had been just a whisper in his ears, especially in the night, calling out to him by his name. Beckoning him. Drawing him into the truth that perhaps Sherlock was more fond of him than he let on or ever even realized. 

He hadn’t really ate or slept, much to Mrs. Hudson’s disapproval. She figured that perhaps he was grieving, and how he grieved was understandable, but she did not like to see the detective allow his health to decline over such a matter. It would not bode well for him in the end. She did her best to prepare him something small, like toast or plain bread with butter, or fruit, or even leave him a muffin to nibble on as he sat about the flat doing God knows what. But even his lack of appetite did not allow him the small pleasure of that. At least he drank the tea, she thought to herself, so he wouldn’t dehydrate himself in that mind palace of his— if that _was_ where he was at, she couldn’t possibly understand how those mental mind tricks worked. 

A deep sigh emitted from his lips whilst he observed the red-orange flames dance, remembering what Blanche told him. Remembering it for the thousandth time and would probably remember it for a thousand times more. Jim was burning him from the inside out. He hadn’t a single clue how to even pursue the matter. The criminal would not be easy to find. Pondering a likelihood of him being anywhere was like spinning a globe and watching where his finger would land by chance. Like the embers of a fire, he burned away to ash, and scattered through the currents of the wind, then somehow returned again. He walked through his mind palace however he pleased, said whatever he felt, appeared however he wished, as though he owned him and decided what to think and how to feel, playing with every heartbeat, every breath, every movement. Focusing on the flames became the sole tool of how he fought to take back control of his senses. Though, it was proving very difficult. 

_Very_ difficult indeed. 

As he willed himself to think rationally, to think calmly, and without distraction, there went his sanity just at the moment he neared peace— that scent of Jicky Guerlain intoxicating his senses. He couldn’t tell if this was simply his mind playing tricks on him, creating a hallucination of the scent, or true to be Jicky Gerulain in the present moment filling him with a strange and sudden rush of dopamine that could not be described. 

There was a creak. Sherlock could immediately deduce from the sound that it was right at behind his door, and that if it was Mrs. Hudson, he would have heard her call for him to open the door as he had locked it. But she was busy darning her undergarments from a snag it got whilst she had washed her clothes earlier that morning. Far too busy to be worrying over Sherlock at this hour. It was then with the turn of the key and the twist of the knob, Sherlock knew exactly who this was. In a world of locked rooms, he was the man with the key who was king. 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. His body tensed and he became stiff where he sat, unmoving as he gazed into the seemingly endless dancing fire. He heard the door shut. The floor continued to creak and the sound drew nearer now, the sound of light footsteps carrying the weight of a man with 5’8 height and lean build, no heavier than a pile of books, and light enough that if Sherlock had not been paying mind to his surroundings, would have crept up on him. The footsteps eventually stopped, likely, seven feet away from the spot he remained seated. Sherlock knew no other man in the world would simply invite themselves into his home the way this man would, as if he himself lived there. No, no one would have the gall to even be so bold or spontaneous as to trespass a property as this particular man. 

“Mr. Moriarty.”

Just saying his name alone sent shivers down his spine. It rolled so perfectly off of his tongue that it felt like a forbidden curse being spoken into existence, but one so beautifully said, that it had to be a sin to enjoy the sound of the name so much. A name was just a name, but a name also held meaning to it, connotation, associations. An association he made with power and madness yet incredible genius. His name was an echo in the criminal underworld that many feared deeply, but a name that made his heart leap with the most twisted joy. 

The man behind him smiled. 

“Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock chewed at his bottom lip for a few moments, the way the man spoke his name sounded like a song. The tone was so light hearted yet taunting, he had wondered if turning around would be the case, to gaze upon something that tortured him all this time, or to listen to what he had to say. Anyone would have stood up by now, turned around, and tried to shoot him from breaking into their home. But not Sherlock. He knew he was the kind of man to trespass into locked places and steal nothing. The kind of man who spun your thoughts like threads of spider’s silk, creating a web of an endless, spiraling prison for those who lived in their mind. And who else lived in their mind more than Sherlock Holmes?

“Congratulations on your success with the case. Though I really shouldn’t be congratulating you, I long expected for you to solve it.” He explained. “But I’d like to let you know when a job is well done. So I do encourage you to be more enthusiastic.”

Sherlock sneered. “I thought I’d never see the day where you were encouraging _me_ to solve _your_ crimes.”

“Oh, but my dear, all I ever do is want to encourage my favorite detective.” He teased. “I refuse to believe you didn’t think this case was _gift wrapped_ for you. I always think of creating them for you. I like to watch you dance, Mr. Holmes. I like to see you play my game.” 

Sherlock swallowed thickly as Jim called him his favorite and spoke about finding thrill in his work endeavors. There was a strange intimacy in feeling those eyes on him as he worked, the thought of being watched by him as he investigated, he deduced, and even solved. Sherlock felt like a private show, an entertainment, or even an experiment or fly caught in his spiraling threads. He was everywhere and anywhere, when he slept and when he was awake, haunting him, making him feel drawn when all he willed himself to do was resist those wicked dark eyes. 

“Aren’t you going to welcome me to your home? Where’s the music? The refreshments? What a way to welcome your guests.” He sighed, prompting Sherlock to snap from his racing thoughts. “All I smell is chamomile tea from your kitchen and what a disappointment that is. Do you really drink that? It’s such a… weak flavor. People only ever drink it to become relaxed enough for bed… or to calm down.”

Sherlock was silent, his gaze flickering over the fire and his iron fire poker stick that leaned against the jamb. He wondered if he had made a mistake now, pursuing the interests of the criminal, that if Blanche was wrong. There was something so insidious about the energy of the room that could be felt the first time of his arrival. He wondered whether he should have plotted a way to use the poker on him whilst he was here. He wondered if he should have done anything at all— the Irishman was just as clever and twice as deadly. There was no possible way he could carry out such a basic plan. After all, he reckoned the criminal had been fully prepared himself with a firearm if need be. He did not turn around, refusing to gaze upon him, trying to relax his heart from beating out of normal resting pace. He didn’t want to lose himself. He didn’t want to lose any control he had over his mind and heart as it was. 

“Worry not, I’m only here to congratulate you and of course… invite you to my home.”

“What for?”

“Dinner.”

“No.” 

He could hear an amused chuckle escape him and the creaking continued, the sound coming nearer and nearer. It suddenly came to a stop, where he could just feel Jim’s form behind him. Sherlock was prepared to stand, to defend himself, to do anything to thwart him and his malicious charm. It was a charm so dangerous that not even the flames of fire before him could compare. But he did nothing. He sat there dumbly, unmoving as a stone, not a single twitch of muscle, not a single finger budging. He was still and quiet, listening to the only thing that could be heard— the crackling of the flames burning the firewood and another long creak against the floorboards.

Then, a warm breath cascading his ear.

“I do hope you consider, Mr. Holmes… I like having entertaining company. And I’m aware you do as well.” 

His voice, the sing-song lilt of his Irish accent penetrated his whirring thoughts, dizzying him along with that invigorating scent of Jicky Guerlain. Damn James Moriarty. Damn him right to Hell! Never could a man be so frustratingly intoxicating. He was not liquor in his bloodstream, nor cocaine, nor nicotine. He was a poison who knew what threads to pull. He was a spider making him his own marionette, dancing at his every command. And he physically shivered, though he was unsure if it was from the idea of being Jim’s metaphorical marionette or because his voice was so musical that his body betrayed him, and dopamine responded as its listener. His heart was still racing. If he swallowed to wet his dry throat, gasped for air, he was sure Jim would have noticed he was weak from such a soft and melodic whisper. Well at least, if Jim didn’t realize the hairs already standing up on his neck, the goosebumps raised from the alluring sound of his words.

Jim’s hand then popped into Sherlock’s vision before him bearing a small piece of paper, scribbled on it was an address. His address. Sherlock looked at it for a few moments and grabbed the piece of paper from his hand aloofly, watching as Jim’s hand retracted from his view. He scoffed.

“You could have just told me where you lived. I don’t need it written down to remember.”

“That isn’t why I gave it to you.”

Sherlock gazed at the address written on the paper, briefly bewildered by what he intended. 

**92 Eaton Pl**

**Belgravia, London**

_7:30 PM_

His eyes flickered over the address and looked closely at the writing, reading all of it letter by letter, word for word, number by number, letting his eyes roam across the bottom right written note until the answer formed itself in his mind. Though nothing could be figured out.

_Bring your dancing shoes!_

“What does this—”

At this point, Sherlock had turned around from major puzzlement, prepared to ask Jim what the devil he meant by the message, only for him to no longer be standing behind him. He was gone. Sherlock irritably sighed and shoved the paper into his dressing gown pocket. Sometimes he truly wondered if he was going mad or if these things actually happened. He couldn’t tell anymore. It was as if he were Alice in Wonderland, chasing a white rabbit. The nerve of this man! To invite himself into his home without warning, complain about not having refreshments, whisper in his ear, and leave him with a strange message. It was all so very bothersome and it made Sherlock want to scream. The criminal was an enigma that Sherlock was determined to solve, if that were even remotely possible— he was starting to doubt himself.

What bringing his dancing shoes suggested, Sherlock was unsure of how to interpret it. Jim knew well that Sherlock loathed riddles, but he also knew Jim didn’t care. He purposely wrote it on paper to throw him off, like a red herring swimming in the way of his real clue. Sherlock now had no choice but to comply with Jim’s request for dinner at his home, so he could truly deduce what was up his sleeve. It would be like a fly buzzing it’s way into the lair of a spider, but Sherlock would rather be swallowed alive than slowly tortured on the outskirts of his web. He would not consider it any more than what it was in his eyes— investigation. He would find out how Jim survived and whatever the hell this riddle meant. 

  
  
  
  


**_Ѽ_ **

  
  
  
  


The following day was filled with absolute chaos. At least, for Sherlock. It started out at night. He retired to bed a couple of hours after Jim made his unexpected visit to his flat. It was only three and a half hours, perhaps four, until he awoke again, thinking of that stupid riddle. He tried to decode it in his mind, the words spread out and mixed up or taken out like an anagram. But it was clear after at least an hour of that, it was useless decoding, and he stuck to his first quest which was to learn what it precisely meant without tearing apart the address completely. During the day, it was an arduous task thinking of it again and again while doing the smallest of things. A bath wasn’t safe without his thoughts clasping themselves to the words nor was breakfast when he actually ate something for Mrs. Hudson’s health. He tried to distract himself with tedious tasks throughout the day like playing the violin or reading the newspaper to solve any case in it within a short span of time without leaving his chair. But he had been unsuccessful in drowning out the phrase written on the paper.

It is exactly how he found himself approaching the doors of the lion’s den, or in this particular case, the heart of the spider’s web. As he took his final step, he let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t understand the reactions of his body and why his heart raced so quickly at the thought of the criminal. It wasn’t as if it was fear either. It was less fear and something else his mind searched for an explanation of. Of course, he could consider the possibility of dinner going awry, but it was highly unlikely. Killing him so predictably was too dull for Jim to do, especially ordering someone to do it for him. He did take the precaution of his own firearm, though he had hoped he wouldn’t have needed to actually use it.

Grabbing the door knocker, he knocked thrice, then let go of the golden piece before standing back a few inches from the door, hands in his pocket. He didn’t have to wait very long either, a man not older than in his thirties opened the door. He had slicked back brown hair and a soft expression. He appeared to be Italian or of Italian descent to Sherlock as he deduced the man’s features. He was average height, rather thin, and had dark eyes. Though when he spoke, Sherlock knew he was definitely an Englishman. He smiled at Sherlock.

“You must be Mr. Holmes, welcome. Master James will be with you shortly. Please come in.” He opened the door further, allowing the detective to come inside. “My name is Miles Giordano. I am the footman here.”

Sherlock smiled only briefly for a few moments before letting his lips fall into its natural frown.

“Good evening.”

“May I take your things?” 

Sherlock wasn’t used to such coddling treatment. He sighed and offered the man his coat, top hat, and walking stick, saying a small thanks.

“Thank you, sir.” said the footman. 

He watched as the Italian hung his coat and hat in the guest closet diagonally across from where he stood. Sherlock took a moment to let his eyes linger about Jim’s home. He wasn’t surprised that it looked extremely beautiful, with its interior of golds, reds, and whites. Belgravia was known for its wealthy kind living amongst these streets. Sherlock could not say he was familiar with such a lifestyle. At best, he had his nice and cozy flat and Mrs. Hudson, who still swore she was not his housekeeper, despite doing everything a housekeeper does. He wasn’t sure if the wealthy life would be his cup of tea if he were to live one anyhow. He wouldn’t mind the money, but the pressure to upkeep one's social status by mingling with other upper class folk, or using the money for frivolous things like servants, or even having the most expensive foods and wines. It was really a pretentious life for the modern Victorian. It was even more ridiculous to him that there were classes. Sherlock would most definitely consider himself middle class, perhaps more well off than most middle class people, though it was not as if it truly mattered to him. Status and fortune did not matter six feet under.

He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t even realize he had been led into Jim’s grand sitting room. Plush red and gold settees, gorgeous paintings, a fireplace— he just wondered if Jim had the Midas touch, that everything that came into contact with him was turned to gold. Any person who gazed upon Jim knew he was an upper class gentleman. But it was almost like walking into Buckingham palace, just not as big. But just as elegant. Jim definitely took pride in his home as he did his appearance, that was apparent. As he turned to his footman to ask him about Jim and when he would be coming, the footman had already begun to speak.

“Please, do be comfortable. I will be retrieving the refreshments, as dinner will be ready in another hour. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Just as he asked about tea, Sherlock could feel himself slightly tense. He knew he had to be careful, but he would not be so obvious that he was trying to be.

“Yes, thank you.” said Sherlock, taking a seat on the couch, only slightly impatient to not see Jim now. He only wondered what made him take so long. Possibly tending to his appearance like the dandy he was.

After the footman left, Sherlock stood. He could not be sitting when he was so restless inside. His heart was pounding. He didn’t wish to be rude and snoop, but he decided to wander the sitting room, and hoped there was more to find if there was something Jim was truly meaning for him to figure out with that phrase. He wondered if it was some kind of pun or if there were literal dancing shoes he needed if they were to dance in that sense. Any idea he considered to be possible was immediately dismissed not long after lingering on it for longer than a minute or two. That was how his mind worked. It was desperate for anything to latch onto, to try and make sense of the very thing no matter how bizarre. There was no reason Sherlock had to feel like he was tangled in his threads already, just trying to figure out this irritating little puzzle.

He began to wonder if it was some form of metaphor or mockery, perhaps he meant to try to humiliate him if he asked him to dance. Sherlock wasn’t very fond of dancing and he wasn’t particularly sure if he would ever want to dance with Jim. But the thought of Jim’s body against his own as they waltzed together to a beautiful melody made him swallow hard. He didn’t understand why the thought was more tempting than ridiculous, but he refused to give into the intrusive imagery that entered his mind. To try and distract himself from it momentarily, he gazed upon the paintings hung on the walls. Each one, Baroque, but the one hung above his fireplace that stood out remarkably was Pre-Raphaelite. _Dante’s Dream_ the painting was called, painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The colors of reds, greens, blues, and whites of the clothes the people wore all stood out with its brown and gold background, creating a livelihood of colors that blended so perfectly together with each brushstroke. Jim really did seem to enjoy fine art, his home was decorated in it. 

Once again, so lost in thought, Sherlock hadn’t realized he was met with his host when he heard a voice quote,

“‘Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly, / “‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; / The way into my parlour is up a winding stair / And I have many curious things to shew when you are there.’” 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat again, the melodic sound of the Irish lilt, taunting him with a children’s fable. Of course, he recognized it, he read and heard it so many times as a child from his mother. The Spider and The Fly by Mary Howitt. A cautionary tale of not giving so easily into one’s charms. The irony of him quoting such a poem was rather laughable. Though, of course, he didn’t laugh. He had a feeling he would quote it often through his visit and that thought alone slightly irritated Sherlock, because he could never understand what such things meant when said so randomly. If he meant it as a puzzle, as some sort of riddle, then Sherlock was as lost and ill-prepared as a lamb who wandered astray, captured, and ready for the slaughter. With all the courage his being could muster, he took a deep breath, slowly turning around, doing his damndest to seem as calm and collected as he was, despite feeling his heart hammering in his chest. How enchanting he looked as well, with his slicked back black hair, dark brooding eyes, chiseled jaw, and lean stature. He looked especially handsome with his white shirt, velvet black waistcoat, and trousers to match. Always the man of the evening, prepared to impress at any point. Sherlock was captivated by the sight before him.

“‘Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, / For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’” replied Sherlock, his gaze finally locking with Jim’s after all this time. It felt like eons. 

Jim chuckled, dark eyes flickering over him just as a spider would view its prey. He outstretched a hand and gestured to the settee closest, noticing their tea already back with them on the coffee table. How Sherlock didn’t notice Miles returning with the tea was outrageous— that man had such quiet feet.

“‘I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; / Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. / “There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, / And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!’” Jim proceeded on with the poem, withdrawing his cigarette box from his waistcoat, offering one to Sherlock.

Sherlock raised a brow at him and glanced at the tea, then glanced back at Jim skeptically. He slowly sauntered over and accepted the cigarette, sitting down with him on the plush settee. 

“‘Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said, / They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!’” He quoted the Fly from the poem, watching as Jim fished out his silver lighter from his pocket. 

“Welcome to my home, Mr. Holmes.” Jim couldn’t help but grin at his detective counterpart and his silly, alert behavior.

Sherlock placed the cigarette between his lips, a small huff escaping him from such a peculiar introduction into a conversation. Jim decided to at least make it up to him for keeping Sherlock on hold for so long, reaching over and lighting Sherlock’s cigarette whilst it sat in between his teeth. There was an odd intimacy in Jim lighting his cigarette, something that he allowed no one but him to do in that moment in time. How Jim did whatever he liked and how Sherlock willingly allowed him such privileges started to become increasingly bothersome. What could that possibly mean? The criminal had then lit his own cigarette. The two took a single puff together and just about exhaled their smoke in sync. 

“Pleased to be here.” 

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Then won’t you have some tea?” He smirked, gesturing to the already filled and steaming tea cups, and the pot before them on a silver tray. All expensive China, Sherlock didn’t expect anything less than the best at this point. 

Sherlock watched as Jim grabbed one cup and he stared for a few moments at the teacup left, his eyes flickering from what smelled like Earl Grey— his favorite brew. But it still felt suspicious that Jim had stared at him to take the first sip, just as if he were waiting for something to happen. He had anticipated that if he were to be the first to drink, he would feel the poison coursing through his veins, and fall to the floor whilst the last sight he ever would see was Jim laughing at him. It was possible Jim wouldn’t do something so ordinary, that his murders were much more thought out and unique, but Sherlock still did not completely trust him. And how could he? Somehow on their first encounter that night when Sherlock believed himself to be hallucinating from one of his fixes, Jim slipped a drug into his teacup without him noticing. It was the first and last time Sherlock would ever take his eyes off of his drinks. Or perhaps it wasn’t the tea at all, but the teacup, painted with poison on the rim of the intricately decorated ceramic, he was unsure. It irritated him that Jim was toying with him like this. 

“I shan’t be rude.” Sherlock forced a smile on his lips, taking the cup of tea off of the tray and blowing on it gently. He took another puff of his cigarette. “I’m an Englishman after all.”

Jim nonchalantly shrugged and sipped his tea, placing his cigarette down in his ashtray.

“I figured you wouldn’t. You’re such a polite boy.” replied Jim with a teasing hum.

Sherlock gripped the handle of the teacup, his cheeks dusting pink at his criminal counterpart’s undermining comment. It sounded like something his mother would say. Polite boy? He was no child. He utterly loathed this man!

“You’re not drinking.” stated Jim observingly.

“No.”

“You’re afraid I’ve poisoned it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it beneath you. You’re an unpredictable sort.”

“Mr. Holmes! I’m deeply insulted you’d ever think poison would be the way I’d have you go. How ridiculously boring. No, no, no. Your murder would be far more intimate than that, my dear detective.”

“So you are planning to murder me.”

“No, not really. I like having you around.”

Sherlock sneered. “If you’ll excuse me, that sounds like complete balderdash. After our ordeal at Reichenbach, I would only expect some sort of revenge scheme of yours.”

Jim could only laugh.

“My revenge? Well, certainly, if you think that is the way I’d take my revenge, you couldn’t be further from the truth.” He reached over and picked up his cigarette, setting his tea down on his saucer. 

“Then how would you?” inquired Sherlock, slowly raising the teacup to his lips.

Jim purposely ignored the question.

“So did you bring them?”

Sherlock frowned as he didn’t answer his question. Yet as it registered that Jim was referring to his note on the piece of paper with the address, his eyes widened. He took a sip of the tea, throwing caution to the wind at that insufferable point. He was so over that previous conversation anyhow. After having drank a bit of the tea, for a few moments he waited before he spoke. He didn’t feel anything particularly strange after consuming it, which meant that he deduced it was truthfully safe to drink. Perhaps the meals would prove to be the same. 

“Did I bring my dancing shoes?” He seethed, setting his tea down and taking a puff of his cigarette. “Hmm… no.”

“How unfortunate for you then.” said Jim. And that was all he left it at.

Sherlock was bewildered and itched to ask Jim what the hell he was talking about, but he was sure it was a part of whatever he was planning. He did not ask though. He blew out the smoke he inhaled, the nicotine proving to soothe his nerves. Still being this close to Jim felt unreal. It had been a few years since the event happened. He could remember it like it was yesterday.

“So how did you do it?” inquired Sherlock.

Jim smiled.

“How do you think I did it?”

“We tumbled over the precipice and down into the Reichenbach waters. The survival rate for that is dangerously low.”

“And yet here we are, having survived. What are the odds of that?”

“Hmph. Touché.”

The footman returned shortly after they finished their tea and cigarettes in silence, escorting them both to the dining room, which was no less extravagant than the sitting room. Paintings with their golden frames hung upon the walls with the same green wallpaper that laid behind them. The table, oak, large enough for multiple guests, and covered with a finest pure white tablecloth. Between the food and wine sat a lily centerpiece. In the far left corner of the room sat a gramophone. Miles had sauntered over and set up the device so it could play them the recordings of the music Jim enjoyed as he ate. He always found food tasted better when accompanied with music. 

Sherlock sat down across from Jim at the opposite end of the table, his plate and silverware before him placed neatly. After scooting again, his brows furrowed upon hearing the sound of the music that flowed from the gramophone. How familiar it was. No, he knew exactly what the composition was. It was by Camille Saint-Saëns, a composer he did enjoy. He played his work sometimes when alone at home. He observed Jim sit down at his end and two chefs exit from the kitchen to prepare the food for them. Miles had picked the bottle of wine up, Barolo to be exact, and popped open the cork. 

“Danse Macabre. How fitting.”

“If you still think I’m trying to murder you, then I really think you should try the food. I should enjoy the look of disappointment that crosses your features when you realize it’s everything but.”

Miles poured Sherlock’s wine first. Sherlock watched as the crimson liquid filled the crystal glass, his eyes flickering over to Jim for a moment. 

“Would you like to know something, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’ve been dying for you to tell me something all night.”

One of the chefs came to his side and began to prepare Sherlock’s plate. The food did look delicious. Crisp hot bread, butter, steamed cauliflower, mashed potatoes, and baked chicken. And Sherlock’s stomach was growling with want. He hadn’t really eaten much, especially after the case. Old habits never did die, did they? He was truly a beast to himself. It drove Mrs. Hudson mad at home, but wouldn’t she be pleased to see him devouring a plate of food?

“I’ve missed you these last few years.” said Jim, grabbing his crystal glass of wine. 

Sherlock grabbed his fork as the food was fixed, stabbing the utensil into the vegetable. He really was hungry. Yet as Sherlock heard Jim mention that he missed him, he had to use all the power in his being not to laugh. It just was too comical for Sherlock to listen to. How on Earth could he take him seriously?

“I missed your work.”

Jim smiled wryly as he sipped his drink, then set it down as he went on to speak.

“Those two things are one in the same.”

Sherlock only scoffed and began to eat. As before, the food turned out to be safe and the meal was as appetizing as the tea. He wondered what Jim tried to accomplish in doing these ordinary things. It only made him place his guard further up. They continued to eat for some time, nothing spoken but the sounds of utensils hitting and scraping their plates and the music.

Sherlock tried not to let his thoughts linger again in case he missed something significant. It was difficult not to be distracted in front of the world’s most notorious criminal when dining with him. His thoughts were everywhere else but the food. How odd it was for him to invite him to dinner. What possibly could have been his intentions? Was the answer in the note he left him? Or the poetry he quoted? Or the music? The thought itself drove him mad trying to decode everything and anything in every sound, word, and phrase. Even in every glance. How was James Moriarty the one thing in the entire world impossible to deduce? That was what made him both enticing and chilling all at once. 

“Not everything has to be clever, Mr. Holmes.” He commented, biting into a piece of warm bread.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then stop deducing my food.”

“It’s a gift and a curse, my brain. I deduce everything I see. Don’t you?”

“Mm, yes, would you really like to hear what I’ve deduced about you?”

Sherlock was uneasy at that moment. 

“It’s of no interest to me. I’m already self aware of how I appear and what I’m thinking.”

“Are you only saying that because you’re afraid I’ll deduce something about you that’s best kept unspoken?”

“What are you suggesting?”

That same wicked smile touched his lips as he cut into his chicken. 

“There's something on your mind that is making you falter, but you haven’t quite placed your finger on it, though you’re so very close. It’s… something significant that stimulates you. And you’re rejecting it, no matter how near impossible it is to resist it.” He hummed, placing a piece of chicken into his mouth. “That is what I’m suggesting.”

“What a lengthy way of describing my usage of substance.” Sherlock tried his best to steer away from the place that he feared most; that unknown place he felt things he couldn’t accurately name. It was small changes such as those that made him nervous. And he was hoping badly Jim didn’t try to pick and pry at him about it. Because he knew well what Jim did to him, in those rare moments of contact, making him falter with the sound of his voice or the scent of his cologne. Those vulnerable feelings he ran from quickly at every chance he got.

“I wasn’t talking about drugs.”

Sherlock nearly choked on his wine. He started to panic, his eyes falling to his plate, avoiding all eye contact. He was certainly a fly in a spider’s web.

“I suggest you don’t resist it. Temptation is not a beast, but your friend. And once you realize that, you’ll never worry your pretty little head again about something like it. It’s only a beast when you try to treat it as such. It bares its fangs. Because it sees you as fierce. Not like you would be able to fight it for long. No, not when the body has long succumbed. The mind cannot will it to do otherwise when it has given into sweet, sweet surrender. Let it feed you as you feed from it and you’ll never be disappointed.” He explained, his gaze over Sherlock knowing and smug. “Resistance can be tedious. Temptation will swallow you whole eventually, detective. And you will quiver at the satisfaction it brings. Eve eventually eats the apple and so do we.”

Sherlock shivered at the message, his gaze staring holes into his dinner plate. He knew what Jim was referring to at this point and it made Sherlock feel small under his gaze. The blush on his cheeks couldn’t be more red. This bastard of a man truly relished in making Sherlock feel like he was cornered, like a spider ready to feed. He stayed silent, just willing his mind to focus on just about everything else but that thought. It was quite difficult, but eventually the taste of the mashed potatoes was what he focused on for the rest of his meal, his hand squeezing at his lap to try and relax himself. But it was futile. Jim definitely was a master at making him feel like an utter mess without lifting a finger or even saying a word. 

After dinner ended, Jim invited Sherlock to his study so they could digest their meal and chat. Sherlock is in disbelief as he enters the study— it was immensely meticulous and organized, polished wooden shelves of books and a citrusy scent clung to the air. It was a sophisticated layout. He followed Jim through the study, his fingers running over the spines of his books. Many of them were nonfiction more than fiction, but he noticed a good mix of both. If they weren’t on scientific based works of other scientists, they were on mathematics, astronomy and astrophysics, and many stories and plays of famous recognizable authors and playwrights such as Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde, Mary Shelley, Elizabeth Gaskell, and the infamous Lord Byron. Admittedly, Jim had wonderful taste in literature. He was tempted to grab one of his books and start reading when they ended their tour of the room with the Irishman’s office space. A desk for paperwork and accounting and another desk with what appeared to be a miniature model of London. His eyes widened in amazement, long forgetting about the books, and approached the table with deep fascination.

“My god, you created this?”

Up close, the model was a map. And each part of London had, on the dot, every correct address for a place and space. Every street was accurately detailed. He could see London right before his eyes with the precise pigments of the painted homes and businesses, from Scotland Yard to Buckingham Palace, as well as the grass and the trees. It was so completely accurate that Sherlock audibly gasped as he saw his own home there. Scattered all over were black and white chess pieces representing people in his criminal network and enemies of it. There were even painted hansom cabs stationed at different corners that were pulled by felted horses. The Thames was even far too realistically painted. So this was how he birthed his master plans. It was quite impressive. Sherlock mentally wished to even see Jim use it in person.

“I most certainly did and it didn’t take long at all.” He replied simply, coming over beside him to gaze over his work. “Here is where I birth my creations, the very cases that have been gifted to you. These pieces are the representation of us all at work.”

Sherlock smirked at the thought momentarily. It was slightly comical how much he sounded like a mad scientist then with how he phrased his criminal works.

Jim reached over to Sherlock’s home on Baker Street and brought his piece over to Jim’s home in Belgravia, sitting it right next to his own piece. Sherlock’s piece was a White Queen, separate from their monarch, who was sitting at Buckingham Palace with the rest of her chess piece family of pawns. Jim’s piece was a Black King, prepared to conquer all as it sat high and mighty on his throne in Belgravia. Black and White Pawns, Knights, Bishops, and Rooks were about the city, carrying out Jim’s dark deeds.

“Now it’s more accurate.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Please explain to me why I’m a White Queen.” 

Jim only smirked, lifting Sherlock’s piece to plain view, where the light was hitting it much better. Sherlock turned as he saw his piece in Jim’s hand, watching as Jim toyed with it between his fingers with a relaxed gaze.

“Is it not the objective of the game to capture the Queen?” He glanced over to him with a raised brow. “No one knows what happens to the Queen after she’s captured. But I do. Her poor soldiers were all useless in the end. They abandoned her. But she is no ordinary Queen, though. She is a clever Queen, she did her best to win, yet in the end, she fell prey to the Black King. That’s why you’re the White Queen, Mr. Holmes. No matter how well you think you’re doing, there’s always a chance you might slip.”

Jim glanced over to Sherlock's very flabbergasted expression and smiled in amusement, pressing a soft kiss to the chess piece.

“I also kiss it before every case for good luck.”

Sherlock’s face had become red at his words and of course, the act of the kiss. The symbolism was far too much for him to bear and that was why he was so flustered. Because it was true. Jim was eating him alive in this house! He ripped his gaze away from the man and stared at the books, trying his best to compose himself. The effect he had on Sherlock was like a flame to a moth. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel drawn. But he knew well, like the fate of moths, he too would be burned from the inside out thoroughly. He fought to sharpen his sword and repair his shield for heading into battle again to win against Jim’s disturbingly seductive charms. 

Much to his appreciation, he thanked his lucky stars when the footman arrived at Jim’s study at the nick of time with a tray of dessert and announced his arrival. He caught their attention by knocking on the door, prompting Jim to greet him as he sat down at a small table with two seats by the model of London. Miles had walked through the maze of books until he reached the back where the detective and criminal were, setting down the cake and the tea. There was only one slice and another pot of freshly brewed tea with two teacups. After the footman left, Sherlock raised a brow at Jim and looked to him questionably before gazing back at the cake. It seemed to be carrot cake with vanilla frosting. Jim wasn’t particularly fond of sweets either, but he did have it made for Sherlock. 

“I had it baked just for your arrival.” said Jim, lifting his cup of tea to his lips. “I don’t eat many sweet things, so I decided to give it all to you.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react. It was a sweet gesture he wasn’t at all familiar with. He didn’t eat cake much, but he felt the need to, to at least try it. Something in him encouraged him to do so. It told him that perhaps he would enjoy it. He nodded and shyly picked up the fork, raising it to the cake and cutting a piece off at the top end, a little intrigued to taste the frosting. Jim sipped his tea as he waited for Sherlock’s reaction. After taking a bite, he was pleased to hear Sherlock let out a soft hum of approval. Jim could only observe him longingly as he ate. But Sherlock was hardly paying it mind. Sherlock usually didn’t concern himself with such sugary kinds of foods, but the cake was delightful, and that was the absolute truth. On rare occasions Mrs. Hudson would bake and share some of her treats with Sherlock. Especially cake. This cake admittedly rivaled hers. It was sweet, moist, with fresh buttercream, and a hint of cinnamon and cloves for spice. It was divine. The only kind of sweets he was used to were biscuits, and he only ate them with tea sometimes. 

Sherlock was so caught up in his cake eating that he didn’t realize there was frosting on his bottom lip. Sherlock swallowed the little bit he chewed and glanced up to Jim, gesturing to his cake with his fork.

“You should really try it yourself. It has a lovely taste.” 

Jim blinked for a moment, noticing the frosting on his bottom lip. He wondered how Sherlock could be so completely oblivious to it. It was obvious he didn’t always eat like this, especially in front of others so carelessly. Perhaps he was just enjoying the cake that much. Jim wouldn’t deny it, it did look awfully scrumptious. But the sight of a slightly messy Sherlock was rather precious to him actually, much to the ignorance of Sherlock who curiously gazed at Jim as if he turned deaf from not responding or had been purposely ignoring him again. Then, out of the blue, a smirk spread across Jim’s lips.

“You’re very right, I shall try it myself.” 

In the next moment, Jim leaned over, his hand coming into contact with Sherlock’s thigh for support. Sherlock nearly jumped out of skin at this, completely oblivious that the Irishman had planned to touch him so intimately. Sherlock wondered what was happening as it was all very sudden, never was he prepared for Jim’s unpredictable shenanigans. He began to tremble as his heart thumped wildly inside of his chest. It beat so loud in his ears he thought he’d go deaf himself. He caught Jim’s gaze, his dark brown eyes locking on his baby blue ones. Up close, they were swirling with yearning, something that Sherlock had not noticed in him before. In such lighting, it was like staring into a deep, dark, and endless night, searching for the moon and the stars. Sherlock was so entranced by the way his eyes stared back at him, creating this warm and indescribable feeling that has never been felt before. He knew they were more like tiger’s eyes stones, but they now appeared like onyx ones staring into sapphires. He could be lost in them forever. 

Jim’s eyes flickered between Sherlock’s eyes and his lips a few times, licking his own lips as if he were about to feast on his prey. Sherlock looked like a deer in headlights whilst the space between them closed thinner and thinner. His face grew hot and all his thoughts could linger on was why Jim’s gaze made him feel like he was actually melting. So this was it, wasn’t it? Jim was the flame, burning him, burning him like a wildfire from the inside out, turning into something that no longer felt like him. There he was, plunged into that deep, deep unknown, those feelings, suppressed and overlooked, all came running forth to the surface. They exposed Sherlock, transforming him into a very obvious crimson color. And Jim admired this rosy, submissive gaze, and Sherlock was being pulled forth as if he were under Jim’s wicked spell. 

Slowly, Jim reached close enough and allowed his tongue to lap up that bit or frosting caught on his bottom lip. It was such a new and sudden sensation that Sherlock was taken aback, wondering why on Earth Jim was licking his bottom lip, before he realized that he had frosting on them. But he couldn’t think— he could barely deduce, let alone think of anything. All he could do was sit there and feel it happen, though a soft moan escaped him as he did, his eyes fluttering. Sherlock felt a wave of heat jolt through him then and that was when he recognized that this is what burning felt like. This is what falling prey to the Black King felt like. This is what being a fly felt like. This is what Jim intended when writing for him to bring his dancing shoes. Jim was toying with him. Making him dance. He knew little by little throughout the night he was weaving Sherlock his trap. And it was only a matter of time Sherlock fell right into it. And now there was no turning back. So much for keeping his guard up. All defenses were dropped. 

Jim only pulled away a few inches, pleased at this reaction. It seemed as though the fly was willing to become a feast, right in the heart of the spider’s tangling web. 

“‘Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend what can I do, / To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?’” whispered Jim, once more quoting a piece of the poem. 

Sherlock forgot how to speak, his mind in a daze. It was all static and fog. All the air seemed to flee his lungs. It was as if all the genius he once had left him and now he became a former shell of that man. He was something completely different than Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. No, he was just Sherlock now. Sherlock, a flustered Englishman, who never had been kissed before, let alone licked. He was a man of reason and logic, he always made sure he was above such ordinary temptations like sex and the feelings affiliated with it. Despite his repressed homosexual attraction towards men, he was never the kind of man to fall prey to the clutches of things such as love. He considered it a chemical defect. And Jim was not much different in how he felt. The Consulting Criminal believed that sex was the only thing that brought people together, to reproduce, to stimulate. He didn’t believe that such a thing as love existed. It was an ordinary concept he always found major flaws with. But with the detective before him, he himself had wondered many moons ago if he could truly feel at all. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, this too was a learning experience for the notorious criminal.

“‘The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, / For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again: / So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly, / And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.’” purred Jim, yet another quote from the poem, now very much aware of Sherlock’s subconscious want, seeing as his eyes were pleading for him not to tease. 

After cupping his cheek, Jim pressed his lips against Sherlock’s warmly, his body becoming weary of leaning against his lap, now taking the liberty of sitting on his lap, legs spread apart, just straddling Sherlock in his seat. Sherlock himself didn’t understand what was happening to him; his body felt hotter and hotter by the moment and his legs slightly parted as Jim sat upon him. It was both the tenderness of the touch on his cheek and the eroticism of his kiss that clashed together and turned him completely vulnerable where he was. Like Jim’s, his own eyes were once again fluttering shut. His body could not push him away as Jim’s torso brushed against his own. Now they were pressed together like iron and board. Why could he not resist him now? Why did his charm subdue him into putty in his hands? And why was Sherlock so ready to submit to him? The heat of Jim’s body and his own created an electricity beyond modern scientific comprehension, sending sparks and bolts of pleasure through him as if he were the Creature being roused by Dr. Frankenstein, birthing these feelings from him that have long been conceived. He was reborn in this moment, reanimated into someone else other than himself. Now his shaky hands were slowly coming to Jim’s hips. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t will himself to not hold him, touch him. He needed to hold something. Anything. But he wished to touch Jim. He wished for all of this to be real. 

And his hands eventually did reach Jim’s hips. They even gripped them so tightly as if the criminal could disappear into thin air at any moment and find out this was another one of his drug provoked hallucinations or mind palace fantasies. But to his satisfaction, Jim did not go anywhere. He remained right on his lap. Just where Sherlock needed him to be. 

Jim’s tongue brushed over Sherlock’s bottom lip again, tasting the sweetness of his cake on his lips still, never having imagined kissing Sherlock Holmes would be such a Heavenly experience. Willingly, Sherlock parted his pink cupid bow lips, and Jim’s tongue gently penetrated his mouth. What a feeling too, another suppressed moan ripped from his throat, as his own tongue was brushing against Jim’s, learning how to kiss as Jim was kissing him. He found those mischievous lips to be good for once, making his mouth succumb to his, making it crave him more and more. The taste of Jim was so refined— the taste of tea had never been more tempting. Oh dear god, what was happening to him? His body was betraying him as more moans fled his mouth and his chest heaved. His heart was hammering so hard against his chest he knew Jim must have felt it. Jim knew the power he had over him and struck when the opportunity presented itself. Sherlock loathed this little fact. That he knew exactly what strings to pull to have him dancing in the palm of his hand. Here he was, his supposed nemesis kissing him. His mind screamed why but it felt too good to care.

Jim moaned too. He liked feeling Sherlock beneath his touch. He liked kissing him. And the more he touched and kissed him, the further it was difficult to pull away. As one hand rested on his cheek, the other swept across Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock shivered and his grip on Jim became stronger, kissing him now with just as much passion. Those same skilled fingers of the Irishman’s wandered over to the side, toying with one of straps of Sherlock’s suspenders, tilting his head to deepen the kiss he was so pleased Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying. Their moans and blissful sighs were in sync as their tongues continued to wrestle in their mouths until Jim had far enough of it, going onto sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock was running out of air at this point, his lungs were now only feeding off of the breaths of Jim to survive. No, he wanted more. He needed more. No thoughts, no, just feeling. Something Sherlock had finally come to do.

A loud, delighted sound escaped Sherlock when Jim sucked at his lip, only to gasp when Jim pulled at his suspended strap and released it, snapping against his chest. There, the two men parted from each other’s lips, a string of saliva bridging between them. There was a hazy look in Sherlock’s eye that very much aroused Jim as he sat there in Sherlock’s lap, quite full of himself for reducing the all mighty Sherlock Holmes to a trembling, moaning mess. Sherlock’s eyes soon fluttered open after Jim’s, his half lidded eyes glazed over with frustrated lust stared back into matching lustful eyes. So, this is what it meant to be devoured by a spider? Well, what an extraordinary way to die. 

A chuckle escaped Jim as he fished out a small handkerchief from his pocket, wiping both their mouths of the saliva that did not break from their departing mouths. This prompted Sherlock to snap out of the spell he was under staring into Jim’s eyes, his rosy, flushed cheeks and parted, swollen panting lips were still burning in utter awe of the act. Jim’s fingers swept over Sherlock’s defined cheekbone, tracing behind his ear, and down his smooth, white neck. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat once again, yet this time because of such a tender brush of skin, it sent a sweet thrill throughout his being. It was as if those dark eyes and nimble fingers were beckoning him all again to submit. And truthfully, a piece of Sherlock longed to. 

“W-what… what are y-you doing to me…?” He sighed, finding comfort in his touch as Jim’s same hand cupped the back of his nape. “...w-what is happening to me?”

“I could ask you the same question, Sherlock Holmes.” stated Jim in response, admiring the detective as he sat back a bit, now leaning his back against the table. “I’m only making you feel how I’ve felt all these god forsaken years.”

“It’s torture.” breathed Sherlock.

“Yes.” smiled Jim. “But if you think that is the last of it, you’re in for quite the surprise.”

“J-Jim,” began the Englishman with his first name, assuming they were on such a basis, shyly tearing gaze away for a moment, “is it true w-what you said? Have you always f-felt a warm affection for me?” 

Jim’s eyes widened at inquiry. He thought it was more than obvious after such a heated kiss, but he supposed he would soothe Sherlock’s nerves, and not simply toy with him any longer with riddles. 

“Well of course.” He replied. “You were always a menace to my plans at the start, though I became rather fond of you. I became addicted to creating complex cases for your pleasure.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly.

“And I took pleasure in solving them.”

“Mm, yes. You have a brilliant mind, Sherlock. I like to see what it’s capable of. And each time you never fail to impress. You’re the only man I’ve ever cared to do such things for.” 

The Englishman licked his lips, tasting Jim on his lips as he still fought to maintain composure.

“Have you had… others?” 

Jim furrowed his brows at the question, thinking over what he asked of him. He then laughed softly, absentmindedly playing with the straps of Sherlock’s suspenders. 

“Do you mean have I kissed others? Or do you mean have I fucked others?” asked Jim bluntly.

Sherlock glanced away bashfully at his choice in words, avoiding contact with those haunting brown eyes. His gaze alone was enough to make him melt, but staring at his handsome face seemed far too intimidating after having kissed him and now discussed such intimate details of his life.

“Both, I suppose.” 

“Yes. I’ve kissed and fucked multiple men. But they all would bore me after a while. Things like that never carried commitment. It wasn’t even a thought in my mind.” He shrugged. “The pleasure was all right. But I wasn’t interested in them or their lives. But you… my dear, I shall always be invested in. Have I cared for others? None.”

Sherlock’s head whipped back, staring at Jim as though he had two heads, dumbfounded at his words.

“I-I— I don’t understand you, Jim… I mean… what could I possibly mean to you? Please toy with me no longer… I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what I’m feeling right now, let alone what you’re saying...”

“Are you saying you didn’t have a change of heart after these years of being away from me?” inquired Jim, cupping Sherlock’s chin. “After Reichenbach, I was set on having you all to myself. I no longer wished to deny what I was feeling inside. I knew well I was drawn to you. I fled from it multiple times. I no longer wished to deny myself the pleasure of a lover. That is the one privilege no one has ever had.”

“B…but why me? What could I possibly give you?” inquired Sherlock cluelessly.

“You give me purpose.” replied Jim, caressing his cheek with his free hand. “I chose you because there’s simply no one else who I could ever concern myself with. You are the personification of my dreams.”

Sherlock was at a loss for words. 

“I… I…”

“My god, you ask so many questions.” sighed the criminal. 

“M-my apologies...” said Sherlock. “...Not a question, but… I just am in disbelief still, I suppose… but I… feel similarly. I do harbor a warm affection for you. My attraction to you has been deep, so deep and so strong. But I have not acted upon them. I always feared them, those thoughts. Yet all you’ve done is haunt me. In my life and in my dreams. I am not safe from you. You are so complex, something I crave to unravel, peeling off layer after layer… I… cannot function without you. It is dull without your presence…” admitted Sherlock, his blushing face only ever growing redder and redder. “...and, I need you.”

“As I need you, my beautiful detective. Well, isn’t it interesting how we fool ourselves into believing we are more than human? But I know what you mean to me and I shall never relinquish that feeling. We dangle each other’s hearts in our hands. It’s about time we stop jesting ourselves.” said Jim, tilting Sherlock’s face up to his. Though once he heard the grandfather clock strike ten from his sitting room outside. “It is getting rather late. Let us proceed with this conversation tomorrow, hm?”

Sherlock listened to Jim’s words. It almost seemed as though another man was before him. His heart leapt at this revelation of feeling. The unknown that made him so very terrified of himself was actually not as worrisome as he thought it to be. There was something genuine in the sound of his tone and gaze that made him suddenly so trustworthy. Neither of them were people of trust and if trust at all, it never came easily. But the rawness of those moments, the gentleness of their exchange, somehow he was completely convinced of Jim’s heart and how it embraced him as much as his heart embraced Jim. Though they felt something common among many people, their attraction was beyond that. Their dynamic was unordinary; that was what made the magnetism of their chemistry so powerful beyond words. It was indescribably passionate. It was chaos and it was desire and it was an undeniable attraction that took quite long to face. Though now, as Sherlock sat there, his grip on Jim’s hips once more tightened. 

“J-Jim… I…” he began, tearing away his gaze as habit.

“What is it, dear?” inquired Jim, his thumb brushing over his chin.

Sherlock huffed, mentally berating himself for having such difficulties with talking to Jim, let alone looking at him.

“W-we don’t have to s-stop, do we?” He stammered, the detective hinting at their previous activity. Sherlock didn’t know how else to word it. He had mustered up the bit of course in his system to ask something so lascivious as that.

To this question, Jim smirked devilishly, allowing his fingers to trail down his soft white neck. 

“My my, does the fly certainly have desires to be met, o my dear fly, I shall take you in my web.” He hummed, humorously parodying the The Spider and The Fly poem. Jim leaned down, straddling Sherlock further, lips just barely brushing Sherlock’s jaw. “How do you wish to be devoured, my precious winged prey? Shall I have you pleading for hours? Shall I have you pleading for days?”

For hours? For days? Sherlock gulped for air, for breathing was quite difficult in his position. What Jim foreshadowed had him trembling with need. Those taunting words stirred him like a pot. All he needed was a simple yes or no! He should have known better than to ask such a thing of him, knowing well he would tease him for it. It was immensely infuriating to know that this was the same man who was so tender with him only minutes prior. Jim definitely was a changeable man, that much he knew wouldn’t be any different now. And he supposed the duality of his gentleness and vulgarity had to be at a balance. But how small he felt with Jim saying and doing such cruel things to him. He knew well how it made him feel. It was a dastardly way to get under his skin. He despised how much Jim toyed with him.

“H-have me however you w—”

It was all Sherlock could croak out before he was cut off by Jim’s kisses to his neck. They were slow, sweet, and light against his buttery skin, drawing pleased sounds from the man beneath the criminal. Music to his ears. Sherlock was truly a gift. The sound of his moans was such an alluring composition, it rivaled that of Johannes Sebastian Bach and Tchaikovsky. Jim could feel Sherlock’s frantic pulse beneath his lips as they grazed over the different areas of his neck. How adorable it was to know Sherlock was both eager and nervous for such a fervent act. Jim would be sure to treat him well. In the meantime, it was wonderful to know Sherlock was enjoying himself so well in the matter of only seconds. Jim was a natural charmer and even more a natural at pleasurable servitude. As long as Sherlock was satisfied, so was he. It aroused him to know Sherlock liked what he did. 

Jim’s hands ran over the Englishman’s broad chest, touching him however he could. Once again he played with those silly suspender straps, allowing his tongue to lap over the sensitive skin, then proceed to suck red-purple reminders into him of who Sherlock truly belonged to. This prompted Sherlock to whine out blissfully, legs only widening, his grip tightening on Jim so much it was possible he was bruising him. How the man found such a weak spot on him was truly unbelievable, though of course, would Sherlock be further surprised about the many places Jim deduced to make Sherlock utterly melt like candle wax in his hands. Not only was Sherlock drunk off of his lips, but dizzy from that intoxicating scent of Jicky Guerlain. 

Jim could feel Sherlock stirring, his body giving into the heat of their exchange. Slowly, Jim rocked his hips against his, deciding it was time to burn him yet again— though gradually. Sherlock was set aflame as he felt the pressure of Jim’s weight and hardening bulge push against his own, sending through him those same bolts of pure delight he felt earlier on when they kissed. He gasped out and the pair of them moaned in unison like a dark hymn, one that would make all the dark angels in Hell blush. And that exactly who Sherlock was— Jim’s fallen angel. And he, the Devil. They were outcasts of a society of angels, proper and well behaved, living in temptation and vice. They would never belong to anything but each other. 

Jim’s hand crept down Sherlock’s torso, lingering over his hardened bulge. Once his hand was nice and firm upon it, he didn’t hesitate to squeeze and massage. Sherlock let out a soft cry, his erection now twitching in Jim’s grasp. His head rolled back into the back of the chair, his neck on full display of hickeys and Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Jim could stare at it all day and admire his work, as the sight of Sherlock writhing in absolute delight was breathtaking, but he knew that his priority now was making a meal of his precious, silly Fly. Oh how the Spider craved to devour him nice and slow. Just like that, Sherlock was putty in his hands, in sweet, sweet agony. Sherlock had no idea how badly Jim would have him gasping for mercy. He now wondered if he had taken on more than he bargained for. 

“J-Jim p-please—” whimpered Sherlock, thrusting pathetically into Jim’s hand. Jim was lapping it all up too. “—I-I’m so a-aroused already, p-please—”

Sherlock never begged for anything in his life before. But with Jim, he was struggling to keep himself afloat. He was drowning in his touch, sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of his affections. He was desperate, he feared he could not survive Jim and his teasing for any longer. He now clung to Jim, face buried into his chest. His cologne didn’t at all help his case either; it only further stirred his arousal. But Jim had let go as requested, allowing Sherlock the fleeting relief of not being overstimulated for a few moments. 

“I think, for comfort’s sake, we should relocate, don’t you?” purred Jim.

Of course, Sherlock immediately picked up on the hint, and nodded in agreement hastily. Jim slipped off of Sherlock’s lap and once the two were ready, Jim was leading Sherlock out of the study with matching eagerness, hand in hand. He had actually hoped the walk to his bedroom would take as long as possible, for Jim’s hand was extremely soft and firm to hold. It inspired a brief warmth to flutter in his chest. Though as they sauntered through the sitting room, Sherlock also had slightly hoped no one noticed them being so nefarious. That was, assuming if Jim’s house people, consisting of Miles and any of the chefs, weren’t aware of his homosexual orientation. Yet even if they were, Sherlock still felt as though he walked the walk of shame, walking closely behind Jim so no one would see his likely obvious erection poking through his trousers. Through the hall and up the winding stairs, Sherlock followed behind Jim, just as the Fly being taken by the Spider, lured into his chamber to be dined upon at long last. 

Arriving at Jim's bedroom had only taken four minutes, but it felt like eternity. Once Sherlock stepped foot into that room, he shut the door behind him, gazing about the room, he was not surprised there were more paintings hung upon his bedroom wall. Grey wallpaper, a writing desk, a closet and drawers, a water closet, and what captured his attention most— the crimson, king size canopy bed. It was gorgeous. The material must have been expensive. And when he touched it, he was only proven right. Pure silk. The curtains that hung upon it for privacy almost seemed too perfect. A cherry wood nightstand stood beside his bed with a lamp, a half read book, and a jar of oil. On the other side were his windows with the matching crimson curtains drawn shut. How impressive the upkeep was of his room, not a single speck of dust in sight. Sherlock envied him in a way, as his bedroom was generally neat and clean, though often undusted, with some type of clothing thrown on his desk chair. No matter how hard he attempted to be spotless, some part of his room always exposed his inner slob. 

“You’re welcome to get comfortable, my dear.” whispered Jim from behind, beginning to unbutton his waistcoat, causing Sherlock to swallow thickly.

“Y-yes, of course.” mumbled Sherlock in a flustered state, slowly slipping off his shoes.

The air was sweet with lavender whichever way he turned. There was always a waft of it passing by his nose and somehow, the scent encouraged his mind and body to release that sublime rush of dopamine. He climbed in between the curtains of the canopy bed and sat down, carefully undoing his tie. His heart was beating out of his chest again just imagining the lewd things that were to take place once they were together on that bed. He felt shy because, well, Sherlock never had anyone before. He didn’t know what passion felt like. He never even attempted sex for the thrill of it. The closest to it was masturbation and he only did so once in a blue moon. He was as virgin as the Immaculate Mother herself. He trusted Jim would endow him with his skills, teach him the art of sex, and hoped soon enough he could have mastered it. 

Sherlock emitted a shaky sigh as he eventually stripped of his final piece of clothing. He folded it as best he could and pushed it aside to the end of the bed, keeping everything together so no article of his attire would be lost in the covers. There he sat, bare, never having become so open for the eyes of others. Sherlock only ever saw himself nude between changing clothes and baths. He never believed the day would come where he would be naked before someone, especially that someone being his nemesis, and the situation being anything but innocent. And a moment after he thought of Jim, the criminal had shown himself by pulling back the curtain with those enchanting dark brown eyes Sherlock believed peered into his very soul. 

He was taken aback. Jim was positively stunning. His physique was fit and lean, something he didn’t anticipate when seeing Jim’s physical layers peeled back and being revealed otherwise than what was originally thought. Not to say that he complained. He was handsome, most definitely. His eyes roamed his form, taking in every detail of his masculine beauty, and savoring the memory for his mind palace. His innocent baby blue eyes trailed all the way down his tanned body until he reached what drew his attention the most; Jim’s flushed cock standing proud and tall against his lower stomach. The sight of it was astounding. Even just looking at it made his own cock twitch with yearning. Of all those times he dreamt and thought of ever touching him, the chance he had was now. And he was real. So very real. 

“You’re so handsome beneath your clothes.” said Sherlock in awe.

“Oh my darling, you’re much too right about that.” flirted Jim, climbing onto the bed as well and closing the curtain. 

Jim then gazed to Sherlock, admiring every inch of his pale body whilst Sherlock sat there, allowing his fingers to trace the curve of his pectoral muscle, dark eyes flitting over from his slim waist and the curves of his thighs, to that twitching pink cock of his desperate for Jim’s care. He found Sherlock incredibly elegant. No man of their time, or past, or even future could compare to the beauty before him. Jim longed to worship every aspect of his being and swore his offerings to the god only sitting a few feet away from him would satisfy. At the touch of his fingers, Sherlock moaned. Being in an aroused state did not help how sensitive he was to touch now. A single brush of his knuckle could turn Sherlock into a frenzied, feverish thing. 

“But look at you… you’re so lovely. From the follicle of your hair to your toes. You are an art.” He moved his spot just a slight bit closer, letting his hand wander his broad chest, nearly shivering at how much Sherlock resembled a Greek statue, made of the finest ivory. “I’ve never made love to art before. But I am sure that it will prove a grand experience.” 

Sherlock never had been so flattered in his life. He knew he was at the very least decently attractive, his mother would always tell him so, and a few women now and then would shyly comment on the beauty of his cheekbones and his eyes whilst coming to him as a client. He liked it, the compliments. Though he was never fond of any of those women who made it clear that he was exceptionally beautiful. And never was he adulated over to this extent. It was definitely all so new to him that he still didn’t know how to react to such flattery. It made him feel admirable for just existing. Was that what lovers typically felt? The feeling of such flattery created a familiar warmth that bloomed in his chest. And that warmth only longed to hear Jim’s praises and poetic references. It made him smile.

Jim placed his one hand on Sherlock’s thigh, the other gently shoved him down on his chest to the very soft bed. Crawling on top, Jim massaged his pectoral with that same hand that pushed him down, dipping low to continue kissing and sucking on his skin— his collarbones were next to be worshipped. Once his lips were in contact with Sherlock’s skin, it was already instinctive for the detective to spread his legs. Now it was Jim’s turn to smile, for he certainly delighted in having Sherlock submit to him. He proceeded onward with slow and sensual kisses, drawing out moans wherever he went. He licked at a hardened, perky pink nipple, drawing out a soft yet audible whimper. Further he kissed down his torso, both of his hands coming down to grip his thighs. Jim wasn’t shy to let Sherlock know who he belonged to. Sherlock was his, always and forever. Who ever threatened that would suffer the misfortune of ever trying their luck with the criminal mastermind.

“Mine.”

Kiss.

“Mine.”

Kiss.

“Mine.”

Kiss.

“Mine.”

Kiss.

“Mine.”

Kiss.

“Mine.”

Kiss.

“Mine.”

“...Yours.” 

“Yes... All mine at last...” He finally kissed at his inner thigh, Sherlock’s moans were much louder now. His own cock twitched when Sherlock said he belonged to him. Very right about that he was. But it felt so nice to hear him agree. 

Jim moved his kisses to Sherlock’s balls and up his shaft, moaning whilst it twitched and pulsated against his lips. Even his breath alone against the skin was too much to bear. Sherlock now shot up, gripping at the covers of Jim’s silk bed, observing as his newfound lover pleasured a very sensitive spot for him. A whine fled him and he threw his head back, body shaking with need already. But he already foreshadowed Jim taking his sweet time with him, prolonging every single act upon and to his yearning body. His back had already arched with Jim doing so little to him. Jim knew precisely what he did to him. He knew precisely how to turn Sherlock weak with the smallest of efforts. Is this how Jim liked to see him? Beneath his domineering thumb? And why did Sherlock allow it so much? Why did he both relish in and detest being so submissive? He panted and fought to see what he was doing next, noticing Jim lock his eyes onto him— now Sherlock couldn’t escape his sinister gaze. Trapped once again.

The Irishman’s tongue slowly lapped over Sherlock’s balls and up his cock, making damn sure Sherlock felt him especially on that protruding vein that just begged to be taken care of. With the sight of the Irishman’s gaze never faltering along with the sight and feeling of that wickedly wonderful tongue trailing up his most sensitive flesh, twitching against his tongue, Sherlock was a mess of loud, desperate moans. His baby blue eyes were filled with pleading innocence for Jim to cease his torment and do what he intended to do. But no, Jim was not merciful. Even at Jim’s mercy would Jim not hesitate to be merciless. He was a cunning creature of habit. He would do this again and again til Sherlock completely broke. 

“J-Jim, please—” pleaded Sherlock in a heavy moan, his body tensing at the rush of pleasure it took. “—I n-need you—”

Jim said nothing. He only swept his tongue over his tip, earning a loud gasp and another moan that followed shortly behind. How quaint it was to see him like that, quivering intensely for more than what Jim was feeding him. As much as he hated him in this moment for making him beg so much in such a short span of time, he secretly loved it. He loved being reduced to moans by no other than the man he ardently felt for. No one else would have that privilege. It was rightfully Jim’s alone. Every cell in his body screamed solely for the criminal. That would never change. Sherlock appreciated the thought of being claimed, the thought of being someone else’s. Jim was so devoted to stimulating his mental and physical needs that if this really was another dream, he hoped he would never wake from it. 

“I-I won’t last if you do that—” he trembled, deeply frustrated with Jim seeming so calm and composed in his cruelty. He was such a sadistic bastard.

“Who’s to say I’ll have you orgasm only once tonight?” He breathed in response, his tongue brushing over the tip again much like a lollipop. He could taste his precum beginning to leak— it was divine. 

“D-do you really intend t-to do that to me?” stuttered Sherlock, suppressing a moan that threatened to leave him, trying to reason with Jim. 

Jim only chuckled and responded with a simple, “Yes.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened and before a single syllable of protest could escape him, Jim lips enveloped Sherlock’s crown, immediately moaning at the taste of him. He sucked gently and long, letting his tongue, hot and wet, swirl around the very top, before slowly pulling him in wholly, those mischievous eyes did not depart from Sherlock’s. And there it was— that first and certainly not last, unforgettable cry of bliss. Jim moaned at the sound of it, the way it echoed in his mind again and again only further went on to harden him, especially at the thought of what he would sound like once Jim was deep inside of him. He moaned again and again, the vibrations sending out delicious shocks through Sherlock, encouraging him to rock into his hips, thrusting his cock deeper into Jim’s mouth. He didn’t want to lose that addictive feeling, the one Jim had been withholding from him for so long now. But his frustrations were gaining upon him quickly and Sherlock struggled to hold himself together. His head once again was thrown back as he felt Jim bob his head back forth. He could feel his grasp on whatever control he held onto gradually slipping away. Sherlock was slowly but surely losing it. Jim was so stingy in letting him have what wanted. What he deserved. 

“Jim!” cried out Sherlock, his legs were becoming jelly. He was so, so close already. 

Minutes from orgasm became seconds, Sherlock was just at the edge. He cursed himself for being so weak, so sensitive enough to be brought to climax so soon. He really did relinquish all of his control to Jim. It was truly an an arduous torture. But anything at the edge needed its final push. As Jim moaned, his hand cupped his balls, massaging him as he did before, creating an irresistible feeling that Sherlock could not come down from. He gripped at Jim’s black hair, trying to grasp anything that wasn’t his bed covers, needing some sort of leverage as his orgasm was sneaking up on him. Sherlock could feel it coming. There it was. Closer. And closer. And closer. And closer, he edged.

Finally.

Sherlock cried out once again as he felt the knot in his belly loosen, the rush of adrenaline and dopamine, the fluttering of his eyes as he fell back, thrusting his hips into Jim’s face, savoring that sweet, sweet feeling of orgasm that craved over him whilst he was writhing with ecstasy. Jim’s arousal only increased upon hearing Sherlock enjoy himself to such a tremendous extent. Seeing him so eager to reach his peak was a charming sight. It gave him pride to know that even he could bring the great Sherlock Holmes to such needy behavior. He believed that it was important to make Sherlock feel good, even when he teased him now and then throughout the hot and messy act of their intercourse. Jim’s mouth was so good. Too good that Sherlock came thickly into it, white ribbons of cum filling that wanton mouth. Never could anything compare. Not drugs. Not liquor. Not nicotine. Nothing.

As the flood of his arousal filled his mouth, Jim obligingly swallowed every last bit, not allowing a single drop to escape whilst he drank him in. He moaned at the taste of Sherlock, shuddering at the delicious bodily response to his servicing work, removing his cock from his lips with a gentle pop. Oh yes, he would undoubtedly have this man again and again and again til he was dry of every drop of cum. Jim knew his own addiction had just begun the moment he kissed Sherlock. And it was sucking him off that pushed him to desperately chase after more in fervent greed. He greedily licked his lips, the taste of Sherlock still unforgettably there, slick and tempting. He observed whilst Sherlock laid there shivering from the intense aftershocks hitting him in waves.

“Mm, you taste so splendid, my gorgeous,” he crooned, moving up from his bent position up to Sherlock’s flushed and blissful face, “you moan so good when I suck your pretty cock.”

“D-don’t say such vulgar things…” Sherlock averted his eyes from Jim’s gaze.

“How could I possibly contain myself when I know you enjoy those vulgar things?” He hummed gently, pressing forehead against Sherlock’s, allowing his eyes to flutter shut. He sighed right after. “It’s much too late for you to leave my home tonight. I shall make arrangements for you to stay the night.”

“I should certainly hope so. I didn’t intend to be fucked into smithereens and ushered out right afterwards.” huffed Sherlock, causing Jim to laugh. 

“I’m such a generous host, aren’t I?”

“Do you fuck all of your evening guests and let them stay the night?” 

“Mm, just the handsome detective ones.” 

A faint smirk touched Sherlock’s lips as Jim implied he’d only be having him and letting him stay the night. As he should, of course. The criminal smashed his lips against Sherlock’s and sighed— the most prioritized part of all of this— kissing his detective. Upon kissing Jim, Sherlock could taste himself on his lips, his eyes began to close and he moaned whilst their tongues met yet again, repeatedly, as they brushed against each other in mirrored, impassioned harmony. Sherlock’s hands finally found a purpose and gripped at both sides of Jim’s upper arms, keeping him there as the two of them made music with their syncing moans. Sherlock was a fast learner, his wet, hot kisses pausing only for a moment until his tongue moved over Jim’s bottom lip, sucking gently, catching Jim off guard and drawing loud moans from the lecherous man above him. Giving him a taste of his own medicine by teasing him back just a little. 

“Sherlock…” breathed Jim softly in delight, deepening the kiss. He knew what Sherlock was doing and he intended to counter it. His hand reached down and stroked his cock, his thumb just brushing over his tip, circling over the slit after achieving a firm grasp, smirking inwardly. 

Sherlock gasped and broke away from their amorous kiss, a whimper following right afterwards. His eyes now opened again and stared right into Jim’s sadistic expression, an imploring flicker in his wide and beseeching eyes, lips parting for air, yet only choked moans could leave them. It really didn’t take very much or very long to revert Sherlock back into his former position.

“N-no, Jim, p-please—” begged the Englishman, “—I w-wont do it again—”

“Oh? Won’t you?”

“N-no—!”

“Hmph.”

Jim arrogantly let go of Sherlock’s cock, which was now once again beautifully swollen and erect, a monument of Sherlock’s lust, no thanks to Jim’s petty teasing. He wondered if this night in particular he was just this unforgiving, perhaps as payback as Sherlock brought him down with him over the edge of the cliff they wrangled on before their supposed deaths. But even then, this was far too cruel of a payback when he thought bygones was bygones with their kiss in the study. Clearly, Sherlock was wrong— as if he would admit that though. Curiously, observed as the criminal departed from his body, his arm outstretching between the curtains. After a moment or two, he withdrew his arm back, the jar of oil in his hand. Realization dawned upon Sherlock noticing now as that was why it sat at his nightstand. He couldn’t help but blush at the thought and how completely full it was. He now knew what it’s purpose was intended for.

“You need preparation.” stated Jim, loosening the top of the jar. “Before we can go further.”

“What?”

Jim said nothing but held up three digits, wiggling them about with a diabolical twinkle in his eye. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the gesture and his blush worsened, knowing well the wicked foreshadowing of his near future agony. He let out a disgruntled huff at the unfairness of the entire situation, his cock twitching at the playful glance his way. Jim dipped half of his hand into the jar, then pulled it out, waiting for the drops to fall from his fingertips. Once reassured that dripping had ceased, he set the jar back down outside of the canopy bed onto the nightstand, withdrawing his hand back to himself. Reaching down, he slicked his own cock, a low moan leaving him as he touched himself. Sherlock was mesmerized by it. Hypnotized. He licked his own lips in hopes that he soon would be able to please Jim the way Jim pleased him. For now, he watched him, itching for that second orgasm that awaited him in near time. 

“Lie down.” instructed Jim.

Sherlock hadn’t even noticed he instructed anything of him until his back hit the bed. Jim hovered over him, gazing over his face and hair, and how pretty he appeared with rosy cheeks and messy hair, his once slicked back waves now noticeably more curly. He wanted to remember him like this, with those dream-like oceanic eyes staring up back at him, filled with warmth and lust. Jim would not disappoint if passion was what Sherlock was after. He was devoted to giving him all he desired. Sherlock’s wish was his command. Despite his teasing ways, deep down, he only wanted his lover to melt as he did, their bodies to intertwine like wild vines. He wanted Sherlock to feel him. He wanted to feel Sherlock. To seal their night with a final thrill. This was their little secret, as the two of them knew the fates their lives would take had anyone in Victorian Era London discovered the feelings shared, and the passion that did take place that night. And they were not the only ones who would love in the shadows. For in little time, it would be known by the great Oscar Wilde himself for having a ‘love that dares not speak its name’. 

There came discomfort and a bit of pain at first that Jim did not purposely intend. But it always came with the feeling of pleasure soon afterwards. His fingers worked their way inside of Sherlock, scissoring his entrance, creating a perfect pace the detective would grow fond of as he began to stretch him out. Just as it was torture for Sherlock, who craved nothing more than to be taken already, it was just as much torture for Jim, who longed to make love to him slow, deep, and hard until the both of them fell knackered. Sherlock’s grip on Jim’s shoulder became so hard that he swore he was going to break it. Luckily for Jim, he had a rather high pain tolerance, so whatever Sherlock did, he was not actually hurt. Eventually, Sherlock’s body gave into bliss, and now Sherlock experienced a taste of the euphoria that was on its way. His back arched and body trembled. What followed were loud, sweet moans which beckoned Jim closer to making him his.

“I need you.” whispered Jim, seeing well that his fingers were doing fine work. Not wanting to risk overstimulation, he removed them from Sherlock’s aching, pink hole. “Fuck, Sherlock, I have wanted this for years.”

Sherlock moaned from the removal of his nimble fingers, slightly disappointed he did. 

“I need you too.”

Jim smirked, taking hold of Sherlock’s right thigh, raising his long leg up slightly. “Let’s finish this then, I’ve put you through enough for one night, haven’t I, my dear Fly?”

“You most certainly have, you sadistic bastard.”

Jim leaned forward, that amused expression not quite fading from his features yet. He kissed Sherlock softly, positioning his body against his, Jim’s cock brushing against his entrance. Sherlock sighed shakily into the kiss, his one hand coming to his nape to cup, the other gently gripping his back. There was no more time to waste, the pair of them were as needy as can be. He penetrated Sherlock slowly, a thick moan ripping from his throat as he did. He took a moment to relish in the feeling of his pulsating cock stretching open Sherlock’s walls. He lifted his other leg up by his thigh and pressed down onto him, his kiss never wavering once. Sherlock whimpered from the new sensation inside of him. Of course, it was nothing to complain about, it was just too perfectly titillating that he knew in a matter of moments he would be seeing stars. 

With a roll of his hips, the spark created flame, and the fire had begun to burn. There he was, burning from the passion he so desperately longed for with Jim all of these years. He was yet again a mess of moans as Jim rocked his hips into Sherlock. When parted for air, Jim peppered kisses over his jaw and throat, seeking to satisfy every bit of his body that cried out for attention. The criminal did not intend to leave a single part of his detective ignored. Sherlock’s grip at his nape tightened, along with his hand on Jim’s back muscle, arching his back whilst he felt himself contract and expand around Jim. And how well he fit, like lock and key. Sherlock produced louder, longer moans at this, as Jim was practically moaning deeply into his ear at the sensation of his cock moving deeper and deeper into his velvet heat, his cock beginning to leak precum, which encouraged the arousal in Sherlock to heighten. 

Their pace sped up a bit as Sherlock cried out his name, sending them both into a blissful frenzy. Sherlock couldn’t handle Jim moaning in his ear as he did, it was far too much for him to take. He started to meet every thrust now, his hips rolling in response to every thrust, learning the art of sex. The gratification of it was an ethreal concept when one had every one of their needs met. Jim did exactly that. Though he frustratingly teased him to no end, he was patient, gentle, and cared for him enough to prepare him for something that possibly hurt many inexperienced people. This sex wasn’t selfish, nor jealous, nor empty. It was filled with the selfless devotion for them to reach orgasm together, or for Sherlock to even reach orgasm without penetration. It was a matter of time before Sherlock would reach his too. 

“J-James,” he addressed him in a shaky tone, the name far more intimate than Jim, “James, fuck, James, you’re feel so good, please, faster, please—”

How could Jim neglect such a simple request? His pleasure was his own. Jim would indeed give him the world if he asked for it. He would give him the stars if he demanded it. So Jim, per Sherlock’s delightful request, slammed his hips into him, his thrusts becoming more and more fast and rough. This caused Jim’s head to tilt back in ecstasy, a low, dragged _fuck_ leaving him. Sherlock clawed at his back, fingernails digging into his smooth skin, possibly drawing blood from how rough Sherlock responded. Sherlock’s cock started to leak precum at the growing stimulation. How sex could be so good had to be a sin. And if it was a sin, Sherlock took deep pride in being a twisted sinner with Jim. He would gladly unfurl his black wings and walk with his head high wearing a rusted halo. He didn’t care if their love and their sex was unorthodox. Long live sin if it was delicious as this night. Long live sin, as long as he wasn’t alone in it.

What permeated the bedroom was the sounds of their slapping skin, the squelching sound of his cock inside of him, and their synchronized moans and grunts. Now the air not only carried the scent of lavender, but sweat, and soon sex. Sherlock was edging close again and so was Jim. Orgasm slowly began to creep upon them once one of Jim’s thrusts hit right into Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock cried out, his nails dragging down his back, aching to keep hold of something. Jim’s chest heaved and his body shook as he saw Sherlock in such delight. He wanted this feeling to last as long as it possibly could. But being lost in their own world, it was as if time was no true concept, that the phenomenon of it had no existence. All thoughts of what was or what could be fled and vanished, replaced with nothing but feeling and feeling, alone. No anxieties or loneliness haunted Sherlock’s mind and Jim was no longer plagued with desolation. The two of them had each other on that Winter night. Whilst the snow and ice collected outside on the streets of London, a fire burned in that room, one beyond the physical properties of what fire was thought to be. 

“Oh fuck, James!” 

Sherlock cried out his name because he had reached orgasm at long last. He would have warned him, but it stole his breath away like a thief in the night. Strong waves of rapture crashed into him as their bodies moved against one another, how they writhed like vines in the wind. Jim could feel himself on that verge as well, crying out in immeasurable delectation that had never been experienced before. Of all the sex and pleasure in the world, never did he feel this good. It was as though their bodies belonged, as if they spoke a language that other bodies could not communicate to him with. Perhaps it was the adoration they had for one another that enhanced the ultimate satisfaction that could not be found in others. Their minds, their bodies, and their hearts seemed conjoined at this point. No connection was as beautiful or as bold. It was enticing, chaotic, and most importantly tender. No love existed like that than how it existed in the hearts of the Consulting Detective and Consulting Criminal. 

“S-Sherlock, Christ, I’m so close, I’m—”

Release. Sweet, sweet release for the two men came swiftly before their eyes could blink again. Sherlock ejaculated thick ropes of pearl white cum onto Jim’s toned chest, as Jim’s cum filled Sherlock completely, all at the same time. After riding out their orgasms which seemed to be eternity in a minute, they were met with the bliss of true satisfaction. After coming down from such a high, how wonderful it felt to know that there were other ways of being addicted that did not kill you. It truly made him reconsider tossing his small drug box beneath his bed at home. What a glorious awakening it was. And as they now shivered violently with the aftershocks from their fervent act, Jim pulled out of Sherlock softly with a gentle pop, his cock still slightly weeping from the stimulation it received. He was panting, and so was Sherlock, and the only thing Jim knew that could calm them both is a kiss. He fell beside him, predictably knackered, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek with a shaky hand. Slowly, he brought his face to his, their lips brushing for a total of ten gentle seconds.

“M-my fucking God,” stuttered Sherlock as he pulled away, his heart still somehow racing after a minute had passed, “y-you’re so good at… at that. Sex.”

“Yes, it’s a gift.” Jim laughed, chest still heaving a bit. “But you were superb. I loved every moment of that with you. Your beauty can make angels cry, Sherlock. That was how I felt like doing every time I looked at you in the throes of bliss.”

“James…” He blushed.

“I hear it is getting awfully colder at night. I suggest you seek warmth in my arms tonight or you can freeze to death on your way out.”

Just as quickly he switched back from his shy reaction, Sherlock smirking at Jim’s words, turning his gaze back to him as he watched Jim reach to turn off his lamp.

“Oh no, I don’t intend on going anywhere, Mr. Moriarty. Does not the poem go, ‘Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. / He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, / Within his little parlour–but she ne’er came out again’? I shall not be leaving at least til morning.” 

Jim smirked at his reference to the poem and out went the light. With one last kiss shared, they curled together warm beneath the covers, safe from the perilous Winter night.

**[AN/Author’s Note: Reminder that the poem The Spider and The Fly used in this chapter is credited to the wonderful Mary Howitt!!!]**


End file.
